His wife was even worse, gazing out the door, chin in the air, like her shit should be bronzed and used for paperweights.

"I got some bad press. It was a bum beef, though. The sheriff knew it from the get-go. That's why he cut me loose. I got no bad feelings against that doctor. The dude was in Force Recon. I went to Wal-Mart to buy his book but they didn't have it," Lamar said.

"I don't read the papers a lot, so I'm not real tuned in on it. We're about to boogie, Lamar," Xavier said.

"How you doin', Ms. Girard?" Lamar said, leaning forward so she could see his face.

"I'm quite well," she said. But she didn't turn her head toward him and her eyes were lowered, as though she did not want to see him even on the corner of her vision.

"I'm a big fan," he said.

"Thank you. That's very kind," she replied.

He started to speak again, but she picked up her purse and walked past him to the rest room. She wore a silvery-blue dress that trembled like ice water on her rump.

"Man, she's-" he said to Xavier.

"She's what?" Xavier said, turning toward him.

"Real talented." Lamar watched Xavier sip from his shot glass, then chase the whiskey with beer. The guy must have a liver the size of a football, he thought. How's a drunk fuck like that end up with money and fame and educated broads falling all over him in bookstores?

He felt his irritability growing. "I'm starting to get a big chill here. I do something to you or your lady?" he said.

"No, I just have to go home and write."

"You drink B-52's before you write?… Look, I never went asking for no trouble. I'm not a bad guy. You want to see a badass? Check the cowboy in the corner. That's Wyatt Dixon."

"You need to let go of my arm, Lamar." "I'm paying out thirteen hundred bucks for a new bridge. I didn't press charges against your friend. But I end up on the front page of the fucking newspaper…"

"I know what you mean," Xavier said, peeling Lamar's hand loose from his arm. "Those news guys don't know character when they see it."

Then both Xavier and his wife were out the door, and Lamar's face felt full of needles, his ears humming with sound, as though he had been slapped.

He talked awhile with Sue Lynn at the table, even though she had come to the bar with Wyatt. You had to show Wyatt you weren't afraid of him. Not head on, nothing confrontational, just a little signal you didn't rattle. Then he had gone outside and smoked some Mexican gage with two other bikers, swigging off a long-neck beer on top of their scooters, digging the sunset, watching the log trucks disappear up the grade in the dusk, trying to get rid of the vague sense of humiliation he'd felt when the Girards walked away from him like he was wrapped in stink.

But reefer and alcohol together always seemed to cook a terminal or two in his head. When he went back inside and sat down with Sue Lynn, he started talking. And talking. And talking. Without control, as though somebody had shot him up with a combo of crystal meth and Sodium Pentothal.

Then his brain kicked into gear again and he heard his own voice, in mid-sentence, as though waking from a dream, totally unaware of what he had just said.

Sue Lynn was a breed and looked as if she'd been poured out of two different paint buckets, but that didn't explain the whacked-out stare she was giving him now.

"I say something wrong?" Lamar asked.

"Fuck you," she replied.

"Who put a broom up your ass?"

Her eyes were red and glistening, as though she'd had a few hits of gage herself. She pushed back her chair and picked up her beer bottle and went out the door and let the screen slam behind her.

Now Wyatt was looking at him from the corner of the room. How many people in here had any idea what kind of guy was in their midst? They thought Wyatt was one of their own, with his flat-brim cowboy hat and triangular back and narrow waist and small, hard butt inside skintight jeans. But anybody who'd ever been on the yard would scope out a dude like Wyatt Dixon in five seconds.

Lamar winked and gave him a thumbs-up. But Wyatt just looked at him with those colorless, dead eyes, his mouth like a purple slit, as though he knew something about Lamar's future that Lamar did not.

Well, eat shit and die, Lamar thought. Why was everybody either in his face or on his case? A doctor, for Christ's sake, knocks his bridge down his throat. An ATF prick gets his jollies describing how his ears are going to get lopped off. He tries to talk reason to this Texas lawyer and the lawyer points a gun at his crotch. A Hollywood movie star and her rumdum husband blow their noses on him in a public place and Sue Lynn tells him to get fucked.

Maybe it was time to think about losing Montana and heading back out to the Coast. He could almost see himself tooling down the PCH to Neptune's Net on the Ventura County line, staying high on the sounds of surf and salt wind and waves crashing on rocks. Let the shitkickers frolic with the sheep.

He got on his Harley and bagged it down the road, leaning into the curves, the roar of his exhaust flattening against the cliffs on the roadside. The sun had sunk below the mountains, and the sky was ribbed with strips of purple cloud. A pickup truck came toward him out of the dusk and sucked past him in a rush of cold air, but through the window he recognized the driver, that damned Texas doctor he wished he'd never set eyes on.

Did the doctor recognize him? He didn't need a return performance of that night in the bar at Lincoln. Lamar watched the truck disappear in his rearview mirror, then lifted his face into the wind again, secretly ashamed of the relief he felt.

He rounded another curve and saw a cottage supported by pilings on the edge of the river and a white Cherokee parked by the lilac bushes in front. It was the same Cherokee that Holly and Xavier Girard had left the saloon in. There were lights on behind the shades, and smoke rose from a barbecue pit on the deck above the water.

Maybe the evening still held promise after all.

Lamar pulled onto a gravel turnaround against the mountain, killed his engine, and walked back down the shoulder of the road to the Cherokee. He bent down over each tire and sliced off the valve stem with his pocketknife, then stepped back and viewed his handiwork.

It still needed a little something extra.

He found some rocks under a culvert, heavy and solid and hand-sized for throwing. He heaved one through the front window and two through the passenger windows, then reached inside with his knife and began slicing the leather seats.

That's when he heard Xavier Girard running at him.

It was funny how a celebrity punk thought the real world was like the one he made up in his books. Lamar shifted his knife to his left hand and caught Xavier in the mouth with his right. Xavier went down in the gravel like a sack of grain.

Lamar shook his fingers.

"You must have ate your iron pills today. I think you busted my hand, Xavier," he said.

Xavier didn't answer. He was on his hands and knees now, his mouth dripping blood and spittle, his stomach hanging out of his belt like a balloon full of milk.

"You're done, Xavier. Don't get up. Oh well, I guess this means I don't get a part in one of your wife's movies," Lamar said.

He pulled Xavier the rest of the way to his feet, then propped him against the side of the Cherokee and drove his fist into Xavier's stomach, just below the sternum.

Xavier fell to his knees and vomited, then pressed his forehead against the gravel, gasping for breath, his back shaking.

"See you around. By the way, I read one of your books in the joint. I thought it sucked," Lamar said, and started back toward his Harley.

But Xavier's hand caught the calf of his leg, then he wrapped both arms around Lamar's thigh.