The closest tavern was My Final Bender. I’d turned by this place earlier when I followed Cavagnolo on the way to the Elkhorn garage. I parked under a linden tree next to a Ford Escort that should’ve been junked ten thousand miles ago. Smoke curled from under the hood, which was held in place with a knotted length of garden hose.

The wooden door to the tavern had more gouges in it than a workbench in middle-school shop class. Two pillars of smoke swirled above the mounds of cigarette butts flanking the door. Inside, I expected country, but hip-hop belted from cheap loudspeakers hanging from nails in the dingy plaster walls.

Yellowed masking tape held a faded menu to the wall. Bold underlined letters scrawled with black marker announced: No Foood!

The yeasty smell of forgotten beer replaced the reek of tobacco smoke. Two guys at the bar nursed drinks and gummed unlit cigarettes.

A sign covered the center of a spiderweb of cracks in the mirror behind the bar. The sign read: NO SMOKING. STATE LAW YOU FUCKERS.

The only way this joint could’ve been more of a dive was if it was located in an Alabama swamp. If the other patrons had no quarrel with the trailer park ghetto decor, then I doubt any of them would’ve noticed that I cast no reflection in the mirror.

A short Latino wearing an aloha shirt as long as a muumuu worked the billiard table. The dress code for the day must have been thrift store special.

I picked a seat midway down the bar and took care not to rest my arms on the sticky places.

Mr. Munchkin in the aloha shirt sidled next to me. Gleaming white cross-trainers gave him Mickey Mouse feet. “Whaddaya want?” Matching rings protruded from his lower lip, right nostril, left eyebrow, and around both ears. He must have been deathly afraid of magnets.

“Manhattan.” In a clean glass, please.

The music became especially loud. Something about a homie’s true love for his 12-gauge. Other than the beat, sounded perfectly country western to me.

Mr. Munchkin shouted: “We got beer. And we got beer.”

I was so overwhelmed by the ambience I missed noticing that all the liquor bottles on display were empty.

“Beer then.”

“Then what?” Mr. Munchkin asked. “We got Bud Light. Miller Lite. Corona Light.”

“Only light beer?”

“We’re a healthy bunch. Gotta watch the calories.” He flashed teeth capped with yellow gold.

“A Corona.”

“Bottle or glass?”

One of the guys at the other end of the bar hacked and coughed into his armpit. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and returned to his Bud Light.

“Bottle,” I said.

“Wise choice,” replied Mr. Munchkin, “’cause we ain’t got no glasses.”

I debated whether I should chance drinking anything, much less staying. The grime in this place was a bigger threat to my well-being than Cavagnolo.

The front door opened. A big-haired frosted blonde entered. She had the hard look of a has-been party girl taking the express lane from thirty to senior citizen. She stopped beside me and laid her pink sequined purse on the bar counter.

The blonde peeled off a denim jacket with pile lining and revealed a tangerine tube top squeezing a pair of leathered breasts. Shiny earrings hefty as horseshoes drooped from her earlobes. Her blue eyes were the color of faded ink.

She parked her narrow jeans on the adjacent stool. Her perfume would’ve made a skunk cry for a gas mask.

The woman raised one painted eyebrow in a come-hither look as subtle as a tire iron smacking my nose. “Buy a lady a drink?”

Lady, what lady?

I glanced around the bar to gauge the others’ reactions. This was a place where livers came to die, not for tourists to hook up with the locals.

Mr. Munchkin arrived with a Corona Light for me and a Bud Light for her. He didn’t ask her, the usual? Nor did he ask if I was buying.

She picked the bottle by the neck and raised it in a toast. “Appreciate it.”

I’d lost my thirst and let beads of sweat collect around my bottle. “What gives…”

She completed the question like she had practice. “Shawna.” She propped an elbow on the edge of the bar, leaned on that arm, and gave a pensive look like she was trying to figure out how much money I had in my pocket. “And you?”

“You didn’t let me finish my question. I was going to say, what gives with you being here?”

“Thought you might like some company.” She took a pull on the Bud and left a smudge of lipstick.

Shawna had popped into the bar the minute I sat down and had singled me out. Maybe she’s a hooker-in Morada? — and that’s why the regulars took no notice.

Or something else was going on.

“How about a real drink?” I asked.

Shawna put the beer down and reached for her jacket and purse. “That’s what I’m talking about. Lead the way, cowboy.”

CHAPTER 28

We got into my Toyota and headed east a block on Abundance Boulevard. There wasn’t much in Morada, but fortunately, the town had a liquor store, they weren’t that backward. I stopped on the curb outside the store and gave Shawna a twenty and a ten.

“Any good vodka.” I had to qualify that. “Make sure it doesn’t look like lighter fluid.”

Shawna flashed teeth the color of buffed porcelain and went inside. I took out my contacts and did a sweep of the street and traffic. Nothing suspicious. I put my contacts in.

Shawna came back carrying a paper bag. “I got Grey Goose. A bottle of tonic. A lemon. Some ginger ale.”

“Where to?”

She aimed a long fingernail down the street. We passed the traffic light when she told me to slow down. “It’s on the left.”

A lighted plastic sign outlined with flickering bulbs announced DeLuxe Restaurant Motel. Shawna said to park behind the restaurant.

The DeLuxe was an old motor court with a ground-in smell of cooking oil and wet garbage. Small rooms faced the compact asphalt square of a parking lot. Floodlights at the corners of the eaves didn’t do much except make the shadows appear that much darker. Pickups with rifle racks in the cabs were nestled in the carports between rooms. Every bumper had an NRA sticker.

Shawna directed me to an empty spot at the right corner. It didn’t surprise me that when Shawna got out, she already had a plastic key tag in her hand. It also wouldn’t surprise me if she knew my name as well.

“You always this prepared?” I asked.

“Oh, honey,” she replied, “me and the owners go way back.”

Shawna set the bag with the liquor and goodies on the doormat next to a Folgers coffee can containing kitty litter and cigarette butts. After unlocking the doorknob, she twisted the key into the deadbolt and grabbed the doorknob. She jiggled the key and thumped her shoulder against the door until it opened.

She flicked on the room lights.

I opened my coat and waited by my Toyota, convinced this was a setup. But I detected nothing. Even my sixth sense drew a blank.

I grabbed my backpack and entered the room. The place smelled like the bottom layer of a neglected laundry basket. Shawna put the Grey Goose, tonic, and ginger ale next to plastic disposable cups on the dresser. I nudged the door shut with my foot.

I set my backpack on a card table covered with green contact paper. A placard on the wall above the table admonished:

Bullet holes punctuated the last warning.

Shawna grabbed a small plastic tub from the dresser and offered it to me. “We need ice. Go to the back door of the kitchen and ask for some.”