He looked at me sourly. “Get your arm off the mugs. They have to be washed again if you get them dirty.”

“Your phone. A woman called me from here. I’m a detective, she has information I need, and I want to know who she was.”

He glared at me. “Some stupid homeless woman who I threw out because she hassles the customers begging for booze. She helped herself to the phone just like you’re helping yourself to my Mule mugs. Now, get out of my bar before I throw you out after her.”

“Don’t make threats you can’t back up,” I said. “If she’s a regular, you must know her name or where she lives—”

“I just told you she’s homeless, which means she doesn’t live anywhere.”

The noise and my lack of sleep were making me light-headed. I saw a row of switches on the wall behind him. I shut down the three closest to me, and the bar went dark. People gasped and shrieked, but the noise decreased a few decibels. I counted five and turned the lights on again.

Before the roar could rebuild, I shouted, “Free Moscow Mule to the person who knows the homeless woman who was using the phone in here a little bit ago!”

The bartender shouted to one of the waitstaff to get Fred, time to throw me out and then call the cops.

“I’m a detective,” I said loudly. “I need to find the woman who used your phone. If I do, when the cops arrive, I won’t report you for serving alcohol to kids who are drunk and very likely had roofies fed to them at your bar while you were watching. Deal?”

He slapped an empty stein onto the counter so hard it broke. “Sonia. She comes around when she’s scored enough change to buy a drink. She’s a pain in the ass, but not as big a pain as you. Now, get out.”

A muscly man in the ubiquitous Jayhawk T-shirt was waiting at the end of the bar for me. He grabbed my arm harder than was truly necessary and hustled me to the door, where I somehow tripped on the stoop and kicked his shin while I righted myself. Childish but satisfying.

The young woman was still slumped at the top of the stairs. The trio of youths was still there, carrying freshly filled mugs, speaking in disjointed sentences interspersed with loud laughter, when they pounded one another’s shoulders.

I shone my phone flash inside the young woman’s purse, where I found a student ID. It told me she was Naomi Wissenhurst but didn’t reveal her address. I slapped her lightly, trying to wake her up.

“Naomi! Where do you live!”