The sound passed us, and the bar noise took over again.

A husky older guy in an army jacket and a white beard came in after that. Looked around and headed over to the pool table. Two college kids were playing, and the guy sat off to the side, watching them.

McGulden took a phone call and then walked back to the bar. Someone had brought a bag of boiled peanuts into the place, and the smell of the salt and garlic powder used in the cooking brine floated over in my direction.

Another ninety minutes passed, and I thought about the amount of time I’d spent in bars in my life. A girl fell over drunk by the jukebox and was helped up by a friend.

I walked over to the bar and leaned in to McGulden. “You said he’d be here by now.”

McGulden shrugged while cleaning a glass. No eye contact. I slid over a five spot on the bar. In exchange for it, he handed me the third shot from the tray below the counter.

Bill Withers’s “Lovely Day” was playing over the sounds of cracking billiard balls, and there was a haze of smoke that hung a foot below the ceiling.

I walked back to my booth with the apple juice. The tables around Remy and Gattling had filled in with couples and friend groups. Mostly blue-collar types, but a couple peckerwoods from the farms north of here in Shonus County.

By the top of the next hour, it didn’t look like our guy was coming, and the real possibility surfaced that he took a night off, and we’d wasted time and resources. But other questions arose in my head.

Had the bartender tipped him off? Called him in the time since Remy and I were here earlier? Maybe the call McGulden got a minute ago was from the short guy.

I slid the walkie closer along the worn red leather of the booth, ready to hit the mic. Tell everyone to call it a night.

And then the door opened, and in came a Latin man.

He was four foot ten or so and good-looking, his thick wavy hair still wet and combed toward the back of his head. The bouncer at the door checked his I.D., since he was the size of a child.

As the man pulled out his wallet, my eyes moved to his left hand, which was wrapped in an Ace bandage. Streaks of dried blood stained the gauze haphazardly, as if it had been wrapped and rewrapped a couple times.

My partner sat more erect, and the man approached the bar.

McGulden shook his hand. They exchanged a few words and then the bartender brought the guy his regular. The short man turned then and faced the place, his back against the counter and his eyes scanning the far wall. He threw back the Cuervo with his left hand, but as he did, the bandage began to unwrap.

The short man cursed something inaudible from my distance, trying to tuck the bandage strap under itself, but the thing was a mess. He started unwrapping it as he headed toward the far side of the bar, where the bathroom was.