“I don’t know all the details. Something to do with a will. He might have some money coming his way.”

“Yeah, right. Money coming his way, so maybe I’d want to help out then, right?” Lopez laughed.

The front door opened and a man came in carrying a valet bag.

“Big, I forgot,” he said. “Did you say chaps or jeans tonight?”

“Chaps, you ditz,” Lopez yelled.

“Don’t get yourself in a huff,” the man said. “I brought both.”

“Think you can help?” Lancette asked.

“What else does he look like?”

“Glass eye, a scar on his ear, I said.”

“And?”

Lancette looked puzzled.

“In a place like this, that’s not enough,” he explained, grinning.

He’s jerking me around, she thought.

“Wouldn’t you know if he worked here?” she asked.

“I’ve been running this place about two years now. Bought it from a couple of faggots who moved to Indiana for some god-damn reason. But I’ll ask around. Maybe. Hold on.” He opened the beer chest and then slammed it shut.

“Fuckit, Gregory,” Lopez said to the man with the mop. “Told you to make sure we had the Corona. I don’t see one here.”

“They haven’t delivered it yet,” Gregory replied.

“And don’t you think I should know that.” Lopez lumbered out from behind the bar to tend to the beer problem. While he was gone, Lancette listened to the men at the bar.

“Fucking Sarge keeps busting my balls,” one said.

“Thinks he knows?” asked another.

“Don’t think so. Even so don’t think it would matter. He’s just a ballbuster. Gotta report back for an overnight.” He placed an empty beer bottle on the bar. “Later, boys.”

He looks like a Marine, Lancette thought.

“Later, Big Daddy,” the fellow called to Lopez.

“See ya, Slick,” Lopez yelled back, as he returned to the bar. “Semper Fi them in the you-know-what!”

He smacked a fist into his palm.

“So say I find something,” Lopez said to Lancette, “how do I reach you?”

“I’ll come back,” she replied.

“Wrong!” he said. “Most of our patrons come here and don’t want to be found. So I don’t want people knowing Big Daddy runs a finder service. You come by once, that’s a fluke. You come by again, and they ask, what’s up? So I’ll call you. Let me have one of your cards. This is fuckin’ Washington, if you’re legit, you got a card, right?”

“Sure,” Lancette said. She pulled out a business card and handed it to him.

“Janet Lang, Inter-Business Media,” he read. “What’s that?”

“A news service. I’m a desk editor.”

“Okay, pretty lady, Big Daddy will call you if he comes up with the right prize.”