“Just physical, no relationship,” said Hatfield. “I picked her up in a bar, we went out a few times. The girl knows how to put on an act. In bed, I mean. Goes all crazy like she’s gonna explode. I finally figured out she was faking and told her so. That’s when she kicked me out.”

“Which bar?”

“Which bar…” Hatfield scratched his head.

“Doesn’t seem like a real tough question, Clive.”

“Me and her went to a bunch a them, can’t remember right off. I live in North Hollywood, she’s in Van Nuys, but she wanted to drink in Sherman Oaks, Studio City, said it was upscale… the first time I’d have to say was at… nope, not a bar-bar, the first time was a restaurant, this French-type place… Chez Maurice. I was eating a steak and she was at the bar and when I went to the bathroom I saw her ass on the stool and moseyed back. Good-looking girl, the light shined on her hair, making it look all goldy. Small but a great bod. We talked real easy, she went along real easy and just like that we’re at her place. A few days later I called her and we started hanging out. But nothing serious.”

“How long did you date her?”

“How long… I’d have to say two and a half, three months. Then it got you-know-what.”

“What?”

“Complicated,” said Hatfield. “Lotsa drama, like with all girls. So what’d she do to get herself in trouble?”

“Why would she do anything?”

“The girl has no discipline.”

“About what?”

“She drinks too much — crazy Long Island Teas, taste like iced piss. Sometimes she smokes too much you-know-what. Sometimes she packs her nose with too much you-know-what. For me it’s one beer, maybe two. I don’t get next to that shit.”

“Drama and dope,” said Milo.

“Y’all would be surprised how many of them are like that.” He smoked, waited for a comment that never arrived. “I keep it real. Used to do some racing back in Pass Christian. Gotta keep the reflexes sharp.”

“Where’s Pass Christian?”

“Mississippi.”

“NASCAR?”

“Some Pro Street, some Dixie Sportsman. I can drive in my sleep.”

“Katrina overindulges,” said Milo. “So maybe her reflexes aren’t that great.”

“For her,” said Hatfield, “it’s all about fun. I’m working extra shifts to make my child support and she wants steak and lobster. She thought I was a hillbilly, we never really got along. She’s a shitty driver. One time I let her drive my Vette, she nearly stripped the gears, after that no way was she getting near it. When I told her, she got pissed off. What, she get into a smashup in that Mustang of hers and hurt someone?”

“Did she ever visit you here?”

Hatfield removed the filthy rag and passed it from one hand to another. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Yeah, she did.”