There were many things I could have said. But instead I just stared. Bo had the innocence of wild country in his heart. Once he owed you a debt, he would not, could not ever forget it.

“She worked the bar with three or four other girls for a few months,” he said. “But ain’t none of them been around lately.”

“You know how to get in touch with any’a them?”

“Not really.”

I downed my seltzer and stood up.

I was about to leave, but then I had an idea.

“You ever meet another bar girl name of Mona Strael?”

The ex-con bartender looked at me and smiled.

35

35

The bar had only seven stools but a doorway in the opposite wall led to a little cul-de-sac of a room done all in shades of red. There were seven tables and a velvet padded banquette that ran along the curved sides. Maybe twenty people, not including waitstaff, were in residence drinking and talking. Almost all of them were white. Those who looked up seemed a little surprised that their favorite redneck bartender was ushering a black man in. That wasn’t the norm but, then again, maybe I was an actor or some kind of soul singer. I could have played baseball for an out-of-town team.

Bo led me to a small round table at the farthest reach of the red velvet banquette. There sat the only other Negro in the room. She was young, not quite as dark-skinned as I, with a great mane of frizzy hair that had been partially tamed by being tied at the back.

When we approached she moved her shoulders by way of greeting.

“Hey, Bo,” she said, but she was looking at me.

“Mona Strael, meet Cousin Easy.”

The young woman’s smile broadened and her eyes expressed knowledge, if not understanding.

“The man that dragged you out of prison and brought you here to us?” she said.

“He wants to ask you some questions,” Bo said. “I’d appreciate it if you gave him a few minutes.”

Ms. Strael was a master of body language. She sat back and glanced at the empty chair across from her. Bo slapped my shoulder and I sat down.

“See you later, Bo,” she said over my shoulder.

I was looking at this woman, trying to place her alongside other women I’d known and never really understood, women I’d loved and lost and cared for but mostly in the wrong ways. Her one-piece dress was short hemmed and middle blue. Her lashes were naturally long, fingernails lacquered but not colored, and the watch she wore had a cartoon duck on it.

I must have made a face of some sort because she asked, “What?”

“Cartoon watches the new style?”

“My little goddaughter Azalea gave me this. She said that Danny Duck would protect me.”

“Azalea thinks you need protection?”

“Her mother does.”

“How old is she?”

“Azalea or Athena?”