We headed back toward Lamarr in the late afternoon with neither information nor lunch. I didn't mind about the lunch. The sausage biscuits from breakfast were still sticking to my ribs. In fact, I was considering the possibility that I might never have to eat again.

"That didn't help much," Becker said.

"No," I said, "just widened the focus a little."

We were heading west now and the afternoon sun was coming straight in at us. Becker put down his sun visor.

"Maybe it was supposed to," Becker said.

"So we wouldn't concentrate entirely on the Clives?" I said.

Becker shrugged.

"What is this, you give me an answer and I try to think up the question?"

Becker grinned, squinting into the sun.

"Like that game show," he said. "On TV."

"Swell," I said.

We kept driving straight into the sun. The landscape along the highway was red clay and pines and fields in which nothing much seemed to be growing.

"Okay, let me just expostulate for a while," I said. "You can nod or not as you wish."

"Expostulate?" Becker said.

"I'm sleeping with a Harvard grad," I said.

"The Emory of the North," Becker said.

"I have a series of crimes which, excepting only Carolina Moon," I said, "centers on a family made up of Pud, who's an alcoholic bully, and SueSue, who's an alcoholic sexpot, and Cord, who likes young boys, and Stonie, who, according to SueSue, is sexually frustrated. They are mothered by Hippie, who ran off with a guitar player while her daughters were in their teens, and Walter, who after Hippie ran off, consoled himself by bopping everything that would hold still long enough."

"And Penny," Becker said.

"Who seems to run the business."

"Pretty well too," Becker said.

"You know anything about any of these things?" I said.

"Heard Cord might be a chicken wrangler," Becker said.

"How about Stonie?"

Becker shrugged.

"SueSue?"

Shrug.

"How about good old Pud?" I said.

"Pud's pretty much drunk from noon on, every day," Becker said.

"Probably doesn't make for a good marriage."

"I ain't a social worker," Becker said. "I don't keep track of everybody's dick."

"Still, you knew about Cord."

"I am a police officer," he said.

"Okay, so Cord got in trouble."

Becker didn't comment. We pulled into the parking lot of my motel. Becker stopped by the front door. We sat for a moment in silence.

"These are important people, probably the most important people in Columbia County," Becker said. "Walter Clive is a personal friend of the sheriff of Columbia County, who I work for."

"You mentioned that," I said.

"So I don't want you going down to the Bath House Bar and Grill and nosing around there, asking questions about Cord Wyatt."

"I can see why you wouldn't," I said. "That the gay scene in Lamarr?"

"Such as it is," Becker said. "Tedy Sapp, bouncer down there, used to be a deputy of mine, spells it with one d in Tedy, and two p 's in Sapp. When you don't go down there like I told you not to, I don't want you talking to him or mentioning my name."

"Sure," I said. "Stay away from the Bath House Bar and Grill, and don't talk to Sapp the bouncer. Where is it located so I can be sure not to go near it?"

"Mechanic Street."

"I'll be careful," I said.

We sat for a while longer in silence.

"The family is peculiar," I said.

"And the horse shooting is peculiar," Becker said.

"What does this suggest?" I said.

"Can't imagine," Becker said.

FIFTEEN

THE BATHHOUSE Bar and Grill had a Bud Light sign in its front window with a neon tube image of Spuds McKenzie looking raffish and thirsty. The room was air-conditioned. There was a bar the length of the room across the back. There were tables in front of the bar. Along the right wall there was a small dance floor, with a raised platform for live performances. At the moment the music, Bette Midler singing something I didn't recognize, was from a big old-fashioned Wurlitzer jukebox next to the door. Behind the bar was a chalkboard with the night's by-the-glass wine selections, and a list of bar food specials. In the late afternoon, the bar was about half occupied and there were people at several of the tables. It was like any other place where people went to avoid being alone, except that all the customers were men.

The bartender had a crew cut and a mustache and a tan. He was wearing a dark green polo shirt and chino pants. I ordered a draft beer.

"Tedy around?" I said.

"Tedy?"

"Tedy Sapp," I said.

"Table over there." The bartender nodded. "With the muscles."

Tedy was wearing the Bath House uniform-green polo shirt, chino pants, and a tan. His hair was colored the aggressively artificial blond color that musicians and ballplayers were affecting that year. It was cut very short. He was a flagrant bodybuilder. About my size, and probably about my weight. He was chiseled and cut and buffed like a piece of statuary. I picked up my beer.

"That'll be three and a quarter," the bartender said.

I put a five on the bar and carried my beer over to Tedy's table. He looked up, moving his eyes without moving his head. He had the easy manner of someone who was confident that he could knock you on your ass. He had a cup of coffee in front of him on the table, and a copy of the Atlanta Constitution was folded next to it.

"My name's Spenser," I said. "Dalton Becker mentioned you to me."

"Becker's a good guy," Sapp said.

His voice carried a whisper of hoarseness. He gestured at an empty chair, and I sat down.

"You used to work for Becker," I said.

"Used to work for Becker," he said. "Deputy sheriff. 'Fore that I was in the Army-airborne. Lifted weights. Karate. Married. Trying as hard as I could to be straight."

"And you weren't," I said.

"Nope. Wasn't, am not now. Doesn't look like I'm gonna be."

"And now you're not trying," I said.

"Nope. Got divorced, quit the cops."

"Becker fire you when you came out?"

"Nope. I coulda stayed on. I wanted to quit."

"Still pumping a little iron, though," I said.

"That works gay or straight," Sapp said.

"And now you're here?"

"Yep. Four to midnight six days a week."

"Hard work?" I said.

"No. Now and then a couple queens get into a hissy-fit fight, scratching and kicking, and I have to settle them down. But mostly I'm here so that a few good old boys won't get drunk and come in here to bash some fairies."

"That happen very often?" I said.

"Not as often as it used to," Sapp said.

"Because you're here."

"Yep."

"Most people don't anticipate a tough fairy," I said.

Sapp grinned. "You look like you might have swapped a couple punches in your life."

"You ever lose?" I said.

"What? A fight? In here? Naw."

"That why you quit the cops?" I said. "So you could work here?"

"Yep."

"So you could protect the people who come here?"