Chip said, “Far as I know, the Darcys were cool. The old ones were a little cranky—Granny D’s a Bible-thumper—full of fire and brimstone. Pappy D never had a problem telling you his opinion, whether you wanted to hear it or not. Man, the old fart really hates niggers and rich folk. Has a real hard-on for them developers—Man something.”

“Manfred,” Marge said.

“Thems the ones,” Chip said. “Froths at the mouth when he talks ’bout them. But Luke and Linda and Carla…nothing. Used to come around here, eat my pizza, drink my beer, tip my ladies, shoot the shit. Carla would ball some of the guys. That’s it. None of us knew the fuck what happened. Sheeeet, we knowed something was goin’ down when all them cop cars started driving past. But till Byron came crawlin’ in, we didn’t know diddlysquat about details.”

Marge pulled out the Polaroids. “Ever seen this guy, Chip?”

The biker took the snapshots, clucked his tongue. “Man, is he fucked up. Who’s the nigger?”

“The man is white,” Decker said.

“Can’t be. Look at his skin.”

“Skin does that when it’s been left out in the elements,” Marge said.

“But his lips are thick like nigger lips,” Chip insisted.

“That’s bloat,” Decker said. “Take my word for it, Chip, he’s white.”

Marge said, “He had a tattoo of a naked lady in a helmet on his right arm, the name Gretchen tattooed on his rear end. Ring any bells?”

Chip stared at the picture. His eyes widened. “Goddam, is that Rolland?”

“Rolland who?” Decker asked.

“Sheeeet! Man, is that Rolland?” Chip asked.

Marge said, “We’re asking you, Chip.”

Chip said, “Rolland has a naked lady in a helmet on his right arm and Gretchen on his ass. Couldn’t be two guys with those tattoos, huh?”

“Not likely, Chip,” Decker said.

“Man-oh-man, did he ever get fucked in the ass.” Chip muttered another “sheeeet.” “I can sort of make him out now, but if you hadn’t told me nothing about the tattoos, I never would have recognized him.”

Marge said that was understandable. Decker asked if Rolland had a last name.

“Uh, yeah. Rolland Mason. Lives in your neck of the woods over the mountains. Bums off of his old lady. Think she hops tables in Saugus.”

“Do you know his address?” Marge said.

“Not offhand. Try the book.”

“What’s his old lady’s name?” Marge asked.

“Fuck was it? Betty or Betsy something. A real shit-for-brains.”

“Know what his connection to the Darcys was?” Decker asked.

“No. He might have been ballin’ Carla. But I can name four other guys swiggin’ beer out there that was ballin’ Carla as well.”

“We’d like to talk to them,” Marge said. “Would you tell us who they are?”