Gazing at the carts, I realize Huey’s patrons prefer beer as their beverage of choice, because I don’t see any soda containers in there. Some of the empties are stored in paper bags, others in garbage bags or their original cardboard cases. But most are crammed into the carts as loose singles, a collection of aluminum and glass of varying colors and designs that, when viewed as a whole, remind me of a jigsaw puzzle devoted to breweries around the globe.

“Wow,” I say to Brandon. “It’s like some abstract piece of art or something.”

“Look underneath.”

He rolls the carts back toward the cooler. A large pool of clear liquid has accumulated beneath the carts, the backwash of who knows how many men, women, and children.

“Dude, that’s just gross,” I say.

“It’s amazing how many people don’t rinse out their empties. If I do one thing consistently for the rest of my life, it’ll be to rinse out every can and bottle I ever return for a deposit.” He scrunches his nose. “Can you smell it?”

“Sour beer?”

He nods. “You have to mop it up every time you take the carts back.” He points toward the bathroom. “There’s a mop and bucket in the john.” He nods toward one of the carts. “They usually leak more as you roll them back, so be sure to mop the whole path, okay?” I nod. “I’ll take the carts,” he says. “Meet me at the bins when you finish mopping.” He grabs the push-handle of the first cart and steers it toward the back room.

I’m heading back to grab the mop and bucket when Huey calls me over.

“I’ve been waiting to talk to you,” I whisper. “I have some info.”

Huey’s eyes sparkle. He smiles and pulls the wad of cash from his front pocket. Laying a crisp fifty on the counter, he says, “Lay it on me, Ramsey. What do you know?”

I snag the money and quickly update him on Dale Foster’s current physical appearance—the long straight hair, the mustache minus the handlebars, the larger-than-ever muscles—and his obvious high-ranking law enforcement status, as evidenced by his dealings with his ex-wife and the two cops from last night.

But all Huey does is shake his head in frustration. “I already know most of what you’re telling me. Anything else? If not, hand back the fifty.”

“I watched him hit Tank.” I swallow hard, nervous. “It was a hard slap. The guy beats his kids, Huey.”

“The girl, too?”

“Well, he didn’t hit her, but I’m guessing if he hits his—”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “You can’t assume that. But you saw him slap Tank, huh?”

“Hard, and right in front of his idiot cop buddies, too.”

“Okay. That’s something. I might be able to use that. What else?”

“Dale Foster likes Michigan Cherries.”