Stubbs grabbed at his seat belt. “What the hell’s the hurry?”

The prick stopped, turned. His eyes bulged, grew to the size of headlights, mouth pulled tight in terror. He ran.

Morgan followed, honked the horn.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Stubbs yelled.

Morgan swerved, came within two inches of the prick’s knee. The prick dove, screaming fear. He landed in a pile of garbage bags. The Mercedes roared by, tires squealing as it made the turn down to the next level.

Morgan’s face was a mask of feral joy, wicked contentment. He laughed, and it sounded like the devil.

They didn’t go for pancakes.

Deke Stubbs talked Morgan into heading for the Gulf, where he’d seen billboards advertising titty bars near the beach. Since it was a thirty-minute drive, they stopped at a liquor store and purchased nine small bags of BBQ chips, a six-pack of Busch, and more cigarettes for Stubbs.

Stubbs was having a problem. He liked Morgan. Morgan told him all about the prick at the Sheraton gift shop. Stubbs hated little smart-ass guys like that. Morgan told him about Annette Grayson, the sudden boink, the woman’s lightning change of heart. Stubbs hated women like that. So superior. They’d slum with a guy, then try to cover it.

Morgan wasn’t a pompous, know-it-all, snob professor. He seemed to be a regular guy just trying to get some action, have a few laughs, live his life like anybody else. Stubbs would feel real bad when he turned Morgan’s lights out and made off with the cocaine-if he could find it. It would be a shame since Morgan appeared to be a stand-up guy.

These were Stubbs’s thoughts at a dark, corner table at The Shag Hut just outside of Galveston. The marquee boasted 75 Beautiful Women & 3 Ugly Ones. Onstage a woman named Cricket and another woman named Jade seemed unnaturally interested in one another. One of the women-Jade? — was a curvy Hispanic lady, round ass, hanging tits, an enormous pile of midnight hair. The other was willowy, pale, blond, barely eighteen-maybe.

Morgan swayed with the show, chin in hand, elbow on table. His eyelids were heavy. He’s fading fast, Stubbs thought. No sleep. Too much to drink.

“I’d sure like to be in between that,” Stubbs said, nodding at the stage show.

Morgan said, “MmmHmmmm.”

“I’m going to take the car keys a minute,” Stubbs said. “I left my smokes in the Mercedes.”

Morgan waved his disinterest.

Stubbs went outside. He smelled the ocean, the Gulf of Mexico actually. It was a good smell. Maybe when everything was settled, he’d move near the ocean. Not right on the beach. He hated the beach, hated sunburn and sand in his ass crack and screaming kids and surfers. But close to the water where he could smell it and get fresh seafood. Maybe near a pier. He’d never fished, but he thought he might like it.

Stubbs tried the trunk first. He went through by the numbers, pulled out the spare tire, lifted the carpeting.

No drugs.

He looked in the backseat. For some reason there was a bunch of tools. He ignored them, kept searching. There was a god-awful odor in the back. Faint but plain.

If he got lucky, if he found the drugs here in the Mercedes, Stubbs could just take off and leave Morgan inside the titty bar. He wouldn’t have to bash the guy over the head-or worse. That would make it easier all around.

He took a pocketknife out of his jacket and opened it, shook his head. A shame. The Mercedes was a damn nice car. He plunged the short blade into the fabric, cut a six-inch slit. He reached in and around. Only stuffing.

Hell.

He did the same to the other seats. Nothing.

Stubbs sighed. He’d have to make Morgan talk. But just to be sure, he went through the car one more time.

Morgan couldn’t believe naked women could get so boring so fast. The simple fact was that Jade and Cricket didn’t give two shits about Professor Jay Morgan. Neither did Amber, Titania, Zoey, Brandi, Jasmine, or Princess Daisy. As soon as Morgan ran out of dollar bills, he’d be just another sucker paying inflated prices for watered-down drinks.

He looked around for his new pal. Deke had been a good sport. Morgan knew he was a textbook sad-sack drunk. It was good of Deke to humor him, keep an eye on him while he destroyed himself. Where was Deke? The rest room? No. Morgan remembered. The car. Cigarettes. But that seemed like a long time ago.

Morgan stood. He felt tired but steadier. He walked toward the exit. The beefy bouncer gave him a long look on the way out. The parking lot was dark, poorly lit. Chilly. His feet especially were cold. He saw the Mercedes and shuffled to it.

He opened the back door and saw Deke pulling the stuffing out of the backseat. Morgan blinked, not sure if he was seeing right. He opened his mouth. He should say something, make Deke stop tearing up the expensive car, but he couldn’t quite get his mind around why Deke would intentionally fuck up the interior of a brand-new automobile.

Jakes will go nuts.

Stubbs looked up, met Morgan’s eyes. They stayed frozen like that for a long second.

“Shit.” Stubbs grabbed Morgan, pulled him into the car, shut the door.

Morgan couldn’t resist. He was stupefied. Stubbs pulled his fist back to his ear, held it a moment, then let loose, popped Morgan across the jaw. Hard. A smack of flesh. Morgan wilted into the corner of the Mercedes, the sparks going off in his eyes, bells. He didn’t even put up his hands, couldn’t fight back. Maybe Morgan didn’t understand what was happening. But Stubbs was on top of him. Another punch. Darkness overtook Morgan a moment, a cottony drifting. He shook himself out of it, tried to speak, wanted to know what and why. The salt taste of blood in his mouth.

“Sorry,” Stubbs said. “I can’t have you yelling for help.”

Morgan groped for reality. Was Deke robbing him? He’d had the car keys. It would have been easy to take off.

“I hate to do this, pal.” Stubbs had a fistful of Morgan’s shirt, hand cocked for another punch. “I tried to find the stuff the easy way, not cause you any more grief than needed, but it just didn’t happen that way. You should of stayed inside and watched the T&A show.”

Morgan spit blood. It stained his teeth and chin. “What do you want? Take the car.” He couldn’t find breath. Panic and dread had sapped him.

“Not here for the car, buddy. Maybe some cargo. You truck anything down here from Fumbee?”

Morgan looked blank.

“Come on,” Stubbs said. “I know all about your little side deal, snowman. Don’t you want to fork over the goods and get all this nastiness over with?”

Morgan shook his head. He didn’t know what the man meant. Cargo? What did he think Morgan was doing? There was nothing in Houston for Morgan but the conference. The only reason he’d even left Fumbee was to get away from…

“Oh no.” Morgan’s own voice was tinny and far away in his ears. Cold dread seeped into him, spread down his spine. He shrank in on himself, looked up at Stubbs.

“Oh no.” It was all he could say. He thought feebly he should fight or flee or scream, but he could only wait for the end. Maybe Stubbs would kill him quickly. Or maybe he could figure out what the man wanted, give it to him. Mind and muscle surrendered. All Morgan could do was shut his eyes tight, whine like a whipped dog.

“Knock it off,” Stubbs said. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just tell me where the drugs are.”

Morgan sobbed. He was so desperately tired. And ashamed. He thought of Fred Jones. Frail, emaciated Fred Jones. The old man would never whine. The sudden thought that Jones would see him like this, hear about Morgan’s pathetic display made him the most ashamed.

Morgan had to do something-anything-to help himself. He wouldn’t go out a quivering wad of jelly. “Drugs?”