Spiral

think so. Would of led with it.”
    ”I’d just like to see Ms. Moran.”
    ”Just... ‘see’ her, eh?”
    A lewd edge on his words. ”Talk with her,” I said.
    ”You don’t got yourself no badge, I don’t got to talk with you.”
    He made no effort to get up, though.
    I reached behind me for my wallet. ”I do have some money.”
    ”Thought you might.”
    I extended a ten to him.
    He just stared at it. ”Man starts with a ten, he’ll likely go twenty.”
    ”Or just drive up to another trailer, and start with a five.” He blinked first. Taking the ten and stuffing it down inside the overalls, he waved the pipe back where I’d come from. ”Donna’s to work.”
    The roadhouse from Oline Christie’s article. ”How do I get there?”
    ”South to the state route, west to the filling station, then north on a dirt and marl stretch.”
    ”Name of the place?”
    ”We call it ‘Billy’s,’ but it don’t have no sign says that.”
    ”Then how will I know it?”
    An open grin, four stained and staggered teeth showing. ”You follow my directions, and see something ain’t a tree, it’s Billy’s”

    The word ”ramshackle” in the next edition of Webster’s ought to have a picture of Billy’s next to it. The wood was splintered and weathered to a dozen different shades of gray, one neon sign for bud lit, another for coors not. There were a half-dozen vehicles in the parking area, splattered mud on bumpers, fenders, and doors. Most were pickups, a few others older American cars rusted through and roped or taped together. Putting my jacket back on, I walked on the ridges of ruts to what seemed to be the entrance.
    The door pushed open, no air-conditioning blast hitting me as I stepped into the place. It was dark, the atmosphere piss-warm and sour. A female singer warbled some country-and-western tune from the tinny jukebox. A square bar occupied the right side of the big room, clusters of empty tables and chairs the left around the perimeter of a dance floor laid with scuffed lineoleum.
    Most of the patrons I could see sat alone on stools at the bar. All were male, many smoking over long-neck beer bottles. Beyond them, two more guys cued sticks at a pool table. One wore a Peterbilt ballcap, the other a bandanna tied at his hairline. Both watched me.
    Inside the bar enclosure, a woman looked up at a television set. From what I could see, the program was a Jerry Springer knock-off, but she had the audio low enough that I couldn’t hear it. I wasn’t sure the woman could either.
    She turned toward me as I moved to the bar. Her hair was lifeless, piled up under a scrungie to form a topknot ponytail. Heavy breasts stressed a faded Miami Dolphins jersey with a player number on it, stained jeans below. Her face was more faded than her shirt, not so much in color as animation, and a cigarette smoldered between the index and middle fingers of her right hand.
    When I reached the bar itself, she gave a hiccupy laugh ”A suit in Billy’s. Somebody get the camera.”
    ”Donna Moran?”
    She shifted her stance behind the bar, almost defensively. ”Who wants to know?”
    ”My name’s John Cuddy. I wonder if—”
    ”That boy giving you trouble, Donna?”
    I looked over to the pool table, the Peterbilt guy with his mouth still open, the Bandanna just kind of grinning.
    Moran said, ”Not yet, Luke. But I’ll be sure to let you know.”
    One corner of the bar was empty except for an oversized wipe-towel. ”Could we talk over here, Ms. Moran?”
    ”‘Ms.’ Moran?” she said with another hiccupped laugh. ”Boy, why do I think you don’t got no idea who I am?” There was a glimmer from her face then, the eyes kind of flirty as she moved to the inside of my comer, scraping an ashtray along the bar with her. I sat on the closest stool.
    Moran said, ”A drink, or you on duty?”
    The impression I create. ”Budweiser would be fine.”
    Putting her cigarette in one of the notches of the ashtray, Moran reached below the bar. She brought out a brown bottle with some ice still clinging to it and used a bar-mounted opener to pop the top. ”Two.”
    I put a five-dollar bill on the gouged wood in front of me. Moran set the bottle beside it.
    ”All right, Suit, what do you want?”
    ”I’d like to talk with you about your daughter.”
    ”My...” The face became troubled again, and her eyes went away for a moment. ”Why? Ain’t nobody but one girl reporter cared about Sundy when she got killed.”
    The