Bobby Bonaroo’s Lexus, which I drove here with the unconscious Bobby, is parked in a loading bay at the back of the building, hidden from the nearby street. It’s a beautiful car, and I swear it purred when I drove it last night. But I can’t risk driving off in Bobby’s car and getting pulled over. I could drive it to the center of the parking lot and set it on fire—that would be a nice touch, and then I wouldn’t have to bother with calling the cops to cut Bobby down as the smoke would be a giant LOOK HERE sign. But I don’t have any kerosene or anything to start a fire. Maybe I could siphon the gas tank. Suddenly I’m bone weary—I didn’t sleep at all last night, what with picking up Bobby Bonaroo in a dance club, spiking his drink, walking him out to his car, driving him here, carrying him up to the catwalk, et cetera—and all I want is to crash at my motel room for an hour or so and then hit the road. I have things to do before that, though, and the clock is ticking. Bobby might be knocked out by now, so I should be safe and clear for a few hours, but better safe than sorry, and setting fire to Bobby’s Lexus is a luxury I can’t afford. So I leave the Lexus behind.

My pickup truck, dented and dusty and bought with cash at a used lot in Brownsville, is parked behind a dumpster across from the loading bay. Inside the truck, I remove the red wig I’ve been wearing for hours and start the engine so the A/C can crank on. Then I retrieve Bobby Bonaroo’s laptop from underneath the passenger seat. I open the laptop, wait for it to power up, and enter the password he gave me. I’m almost surprised when it works. Bobby’s desktop is a mess of separate docs and files, and I spend fifteen minutes searching through his data. I see all sorts of interesting things, including what looks like money skimmed off from government contracts and diverted into private accounts—I don’t have time to dive into it but it looks shady as shit. Finally I find what I’m looking for: the single remaining copy of all the records from Casa Madre.