Bones of the Lost

corridor led deeper into the house, presumably to toilets and the kitchen.
    A trio in work clothes and steel-tipped boots occupied a four-topin the main seating area. Three hard hats lay at their feet. Three hamburger specials mounded their plates.
    Two men and a woman sat at the bar, backs to the photo gallery, empty stools equidistant between them. The men wore hoodies, jeans, and running shoes. Both had logged enough miles to have shagged at the tavern in its Myrtle Beach days. Both were drinking beer.
    The woman wore black stretch pants and a pink tee that warned, STOP LOOKING AT MY BOOBS . With her fried gray hair and sagging face she looked old enough to have mothered the men. Her glass held something the color of tea, probably bourbon.
    Though the bartender matched Slidell in poundage, his weight was distributed along more orthodox lines. And much more compactly. Maybe five ten on tiptoes, he had rheumy blue eyes and a shaved skull. Tattooed on his forearm was some sort of bird.
    Having memorized the layout, Slidell crossed to the bar.
    “How’s it going?”
    Rheumy eyes continued drying his hands on a rag.
    Slidell made a show of looking around. “I see business is booming.”
    “What’ll you have?”
    Slidell shifted his toothpick. “Little more hospitality?”
    “You’re a cop.”
    “You’re a genius.”
    The three laborers went quiet. The beer drinkers shifted on their stools.
    Boob woman eavesdropped unapologetically.
    “License is in order.” Rheumy eyes hooked a thumb at the wall behind him.
    Slidell placed both palms on the bar, spread his feet, and loomed.
    “How ’bout we start with a name?”
    “How ’bout we start with some ID.”
    Slidell badged him.
    Rheumy eyes slid a glance at the shield and looked up at Slidell.
    “Name? Or am I starting out with questions too high up the grid?”
    “Sam.”
    Slidell raised both brows in a go-on expression.
    “Sam Poland.”
    “How long you been working here, Sam?”
    “What’s this about?”
    “Whadja do, Sam? Jump some girl’s bones?” Boob woman guffawed at her own wit, then knocked back a slug of her drink.
    “Zip it, Linda.” Poland gestured Slidell down the bar, closer to where I’d paused. “Who’s the chick?” Nodding at me.
    “Lady Gaga. We’re getting an act together.”
    Poland’s jaw muscles bulged, but he said nothing.
    “So, Sam. How long you been working at the country club here?”
    “Twelve years.”
    “Tell me about Dominick Rockett.”
    Poland studied the rag in his hands. Up close, I could see they were red and splotchy. I suspected eczema.
    “I’m talking to you, dickwad.”
    “This is harassment.”
    “Rockett drink here?”
    Poland shrugged.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “A customer looks old enough, I don’t ask for ID.”
    “Guy’s face looks like he washed it with a blowtorch. That help?”
    “I might’ve seen someone like that.”
    “Sitting with John-Henry Story?”
    “Who?”
    “You know, Sam. I’m starting to think you’re trying to waste my time. People waste my time, they piss me off.”
    “Sorry I can’t help.”
    “You saying you never heard of John-Henry Story?”
    Poland shrugged again.
    Moving with astonishing speed for a man of his bulk, Slidell reached out, finger-wrapped Poland’s neck, and brought him forehead to forehead.
    Around us the room went totally still.
    “I find that odd, Sam. Being Story’s the man used to cut your checks.”
    Poland struggled to free his head. Slidell held him like a vise.
    “I can walk out to my car and run your name through every system in the city, the county, the state, and the universe. You got an outstanding warrant? Unpaid taxes? Late child-support payment? One single slip, your dick is mine.”
    Slidell’s words sent droplets of saliva onto Poland’s face. They glistened blue and green in neon oozing from signage behind the bar.
    Even Linda had nothing to say.
    Thinking Poland might speak more freely with me out of earshot, and wanting to avoid spittle, I moved toward the bulletin boards and feigned interest in the photos.
    The collection looked as if it stretched back beyond the Nixon years. Some snapshots had old-fashioned scallopy edges. Some were standard drugstore-issue prints. Some were Polaroids not holding up well.
    I fingered through the layers, digging out an image here and there.
    A creased black-and-white showed an old Chevy coupe with whitewall tires, its fedoraed driver arm-draping the door. A color