“Welcome to hell,” said the bartender, a giant albino negro in a dress and cowboy hat, as he moved toward me. “What can I do you?”

“Southern Comfort and water. Rocks.”

He had it in front of me almost before I had finished saying what I wanted. I took several long sips while I looked around the room. At the end of the bar a drunk was talking to his glass. A tea party of tough guys in designer jeans and muscle T’s was telling loud, dirty jokes at a table on the other side of the room. The record on the jukebox ended; a slow song started. A couple of very buff and peroxided bodybuilders glided out of the dark to dance, glued together in slow motion. A latin guy about my age came in, sat a few stools away and ordered a beer, which the bartender gave him.

“You working here long?” I asked the bartender as I slid him one of my business cards, which he studied for a second.

“I’m White Hunter. Nice to meet you. I’m here most of the time. Have been for about six months.”

“Ever seen this woman? Ever see her in here with anyone?” I showed him the head shot of Cathy Vega. The guy with the beer glanced over at me, then down at the photograph.

The bartender picked up the photo, tilting it toward the light as he examined it. He dropped it back down on the bar. “Never seen her. I love this town. It’s all like the movies. Cops. Robbers. You a detective? I love the schmooz.”

“Hey, man, get me another beer,” the latin guy interrupted. He stared at me, although he was speaking to the bartender.

“Where’s the phone?” I asked.

The bartender pointed past an angry-looking tiki.

I dialed Monica Fullbright’s number, which I now knew by heart. It rang twice before the recorded message clicked on. There was her voice again, promising she couldn’t wait to see me.

“I got your girl for you,” I said.

“Tell me where she is,” Monica Fullbright cut in on the message I was leaving. She sounded like she’d just been given a big surprise party or she had a snout full of coke. She must have been lying by the phone, waiting for it to ring.

My hand gripped the phone tighter. “Not so fast. She wants you to come see me.”

“No. I can’t. She knows where to meet me, what to do.”

“Monica.” It was the first time I had called her by her first name. I wanted her to know I wasn’t impressed, no matter who she wanted me to think she was. “Monica, this ain’t no fooling around. I’m going to be at Happy Times Lanes at Vermont and Olympic in an hour. We’ll talk then.” I hung up fast.