He turned and waved to the ladies at the counter before he left. This time the bell sounded.

Charlie Bean eased the squad car down the main drive of the Nevermore, then slowed near the rear of the park. A police cruiser just like his own was once again parked outside the beat-up Windsor trailer—Rusty Sanders was not known for his subtlety. Bean wondered how the other residents, mostly conservative, God-fearing folk, perceived Sanders’s blatant immorality, but there had been no complaints to his knowledge. Surely their disapproval had been tempered by the security a police car conveyed.

A mischievous thought flickered through Bean’s mind. He wondered how Rusty would like it if his distributor cap disappeared or someone stuck a banana up his tail pipe.

Or up his ass, he thought, a bit more irritated after he remembered running into Georgetta Stovall last night. When he stopped by the A & W for a few burgers and a root beer he saw her there, eating with some youngster he didn’t recognize—probably from out of town, and barely eighteen if that old. Her condition had immediately caught Bean’s eye. Georgie was always a bit too made-up for his taste but last night her rouge was deep enough to plant corn in and the glistening lip gloss did nothing to hide the gash in her lower lip. In fact, the makeup did more to enhance her contusions than hide them. Somebody’d bounced her around pretty good, and he doubted it was her adolescent suitor. Georgie was a big, buxom woman and could have spit in the boy’s ass if she’d wanted (or if he’d ask). He could think of only one person who patronized her little Windsor on a regular basis and seemed capable of such treatment. And Rusty’s name seemed all the more logical when she reached for a cigarette and he saw the handcuff bruises on her wrists. He questioned her about it, hoping she might swear out a complaint or give him any reason at all to hang the little bastard’s butt on a nail. But she just smiled sweetly if a bit vacantly and said nothing.

I swear, Charlie thought, if he’s using that badge for coercion I’ll pin it to his spleen. Personally.

He thought about the banana again and his second use for it and the idea began to appeal to him. He couldn’t stomach a woman-beater. Hell, he’d been married once and had three different relationships since, and not once had he raised a hand against any of them, not once. Not that he didn’t want to on occasion. Take last night for instance. Especially last night, he thought. It was probably the worst row he and Susie had to date. But he didn’t lose his temper.

No, he told himself cynically, all you lost was Susie.