F Is for Fugitive

off." Tap snickered at himself. Pearl didn't seem to take offense.
    I allowed myself to laugh, more from discomfort than amusement. It was odd being caught between these two male energies. It felt like the equivalent of two dogs barking at each other across the safety of a fence.
    There was a commotion at the far end of the bar, and Pearl's attention strayed. Daisy, standing close to us, seemed to understand what it was about. "Jukebox is broke again. It's been eating quarters all day. Darryl claims he's down a dollar twenty-five."
    "Give him back his money from the register and I'll take a look." Pearl eased off the stool and moved down to the jukebox. Shana Timberlake was still dancing, by herself this time, to music no one else could hear. There was a touch of exhibitionism in her grief, and a couple of guys playing pool were eyeing her with undisguised interest, calculating the odds of cashing in on her mood. I've known women like that, who use their troubles as a reason to get laid, as if sex were a balm with healing properties.
    Once Pearl absented himself, the tension level in the air dropped by half and I could feel Tap relax. "Hey, Daze. Gimme another beer, here, babe. This is Crazy Daisy. She's worked for Pearl since before the rocks cooled."
    Daisy glanced at me. "How about it? You ready for another one?"
    Tap caught her eye. "Go ahead and make it two. On me."
    I smiled briefly. "Thanks. That's nice."
    "I didn't want you to think you were settin' here with a crook."
    "He sure likes to hassle you, doesn't he?"
    "Now that's the truth," Tap said. He reared back and looked at me, surprised that anyone but he had picked up on it. "He don't mean any harm by it, but it gets on my nerves, I can tell you that. If this wasn't the only bar in town, I'd tell him to get... well, I'd tell him what he could do with it."
    "Really. Anyone can make mistakes," I said. "I pulled all kinds of pranks when I was a kid. I'm just lucky I didn't get caught. Not that sticking up gas stations is a prank, of course."
    "That ain't even the half of it. That's just what they nailed us for," he said. A slight note of bragging had crept into his tone. I'd heard it before, usually from men who longed for the remembered hype of past sports triumphs. I seldom thought of crime as a peak experience, but Tap might.
    I said, "Listen, if we got nailed for everything we did, we'd all be in jail."
    He laughed. "Hey, I like you. I like your attitude."
    Daisy brought our beers and I watched while Tap pulled out a ten. "Run us a tab," he said to her.
    She picked up the bill and moved back toward the register where I saw her make a note. Meanwhile, Tap studied me, trying to figure out where I was coming from. "I bet you never robbed nobody at gunpoint."
    "No, but my old man did," I said easily. "Did time for it, too." Oh, I liked that. The lie rolled right off my tongue without a moment's thought.
    "You're b.s.-in' me. Your old man did time? Don't give me that. Where?" The "where" came out sounding like "were."
    "Lompoc," I said.
    "That's federal," he said. "What'd he do, rob a bank?"
    I pointed at him, aiming my ringer like a gun.
    "Goddamn," he said. "Goddamn." He was excited now, as if he'd just found out my father was a former president. "How'd he get caught?"
    I shrugged. "He'd been picked up before for passing bad checks, so they just matched the prints on the note he handed the teller. He never even had a chance to spend the money."
    "And you never done any time yourself?"
    "Not me. I'm a real law-and-order type."
    "That's good. You keep that up. You're too nice to get mixed up with prison types. Women are the worst. Do all kind of things. I've heard tales that'd make your hair stand right up on end. And not the hair on your head neither."
    "I'll bet," I said. I changed the subject, not wanting to lie any more than I had to. "How many kids you got?"
    "Here, lemme show you," he said, reaching in his back pocket. He took out his wallet and flipped it open to a photo tucked in the window where his driver's license should have been. "That's Joleen."
    The woman staring out of the picture looked young and somewhat amazed. Four little children surrounded her, scrubbed, grinning, and shiny-faced. The oldest was a boy, probably nine, snaggle-toothed, his hair still visibly damp where she'd combed it into a pompadour just like his dad's. Two girls came next, probably six and eight. A plump-armed baby boy was perched on his mother's lap. The picture had