What are her options here? Kick the tall fucker in the crotch? Slit the stubby bitch's throat with the Chick tract, hoping for a wicked paper cut?

She sees the woman's gaze flick to the left; then she hears feet on sidewalk. Heavy feet.

Louis's feet.

"Everything all right?" he asks, walking up.

The two agents size him up.

"We're looking for someone," the woman says, and holds out a photo.

Miriam's throat tightens. She's glad as hell they're not looking for her – but there Ashley is in the photo. Some party. Red Christmas lights. Laughing. That smug eyebrow. That mouth curled forever in a dickish grin. It's him.

Louis sees it. Miriam waits for him to give up the ghost. If they find Ashley, he'll roll over on her. Which means they'll find her. She can't have that.

"You know this guy?" the Italian asks.

The woman says, "His name is Ashley Gaynes."

"That's a dude, not a chick," Miriam says, verbally feinting left.

"He's a male, yes," the woman says, frowning.

"But his name's Ashley."

They stare at her like they want her dead.

She holds up her hands. "Oh. I just figured – never mind."

"Have you seen him? Or not?"

"Ummm. Nope. I see a lot of dudes. I haven't seen this dude."

The woman thrusts the photo upward, so that it's unavoidably in Louis's line of sight.

"And you, sir? Have you seen this man?"

Louis seems irritated. He tightens. "I'm sorry, who are you people again?"

Miriam leans in, and says in a Southern affectation to match his real one: "Baby, they said they're the FBI."

"Can I see some ID?"

The Italian rolls his eyes. The woman says nothing and shows hers. The man, exasperated, follows suit.

"No," Louis says. "I haven't seen him. Sorry, y'all."

The Italian steps in, cocks his chin, pops his knuckles. "You take one more look at that photo, and you think real hard about it–"

"Frankie," the woman says, putting her little mitt on his chest. "We can stop bothering these people. They don't know anything. Thank you for your time, folks."

The two of them turn and head back toward a black Cutlass Ciera parked a few spots down from the motel office. They seem an odd couple, Miriam thinks. Like a pair of pooches: a little bulldog tottering next to a bony Great Dane.

"They're looking for your brother," Louis says. He doesn't sound happy.

"My brother. Yeah. Thank you. Y'know, for not selling him out."

"I don't feel comfortable lying to the law," he says as they watch the black Oldsmobile exit the lot. It drives off down the avenue, an inky shadow lost to the darkness.

"That's because you have a handful of redeeming traits like honor and integrity and honesty and other positive qualities that are generally foreign to me. It means a lot to me. Really."

He takes a deep breath. "So what happened back there?"

"These two FBI agents–"