“With no description of them or the car?” Bean snorted. “Not likely. Like a needle in a haystack, that’s what it’d be. I’d just consider it a lesson learned the hard way and forget about it. You boys are going to stay away from the Tunnel from now on, aren’t you?”

Billie was shocked. “That’s it? A lesson learned? What kind of police force is this?”

“Goddamn it, Billie, what do you want me to do?”

“Calm down, Mom,” Bart shushed her, embarrassed. “He’s already said there’s nothing he can do. Leave it alone.” He looked around the diner. “Hey, has anyone seen the paper today?” He went over to George Bailey’s table and asked for the folded Herald on the chair beside him. The old man slapped the paper into the boy’s middle without looking up. Bart returned to their table, whispering, “What’s up that old guy’s ass?”

“He’s just old, honey,” Billie said, looking at the stick-thin man with sympathy. “He lives up on the hill. I don’t think he has anyone.” The thought made her impulsively hug Del, much to the boy’s embarrassment.

“Well,” Bean said with a raucous sigh as if to announce something important, “I’m going home.” He ground his ninth butt into the ashtray and laid a bill beside it. “If she doesn’t open up this time, I’ll kick the door down.”

“You mean you’ll sleep at the jail?”

He broke into his patented shit-eating grin. “More than likely. Boys, you take care of yourselves.” He turned to Stiles. “Still interested in that work?”

“I’ll be over first thing in the morning.”

“Well, I won’t. Late shift again tomorrow night. But I told the marshal you’d be by sooner or later. Well, g’night, all.” As he went out, he opened and closed the door several times but couldn’t keep the bell from clanking. He finally gave up and left, shaking his head.

“I’d better get back to work,” Billie said. “We’ll be closing pretty soon. Chris, how’d you like to come by for a drink after I get off?” She realized immediately how serious she’d sounded and thought to add, “Wouldn’t we like that, boys?”

He shook his head. “It’s getting kinda late. . . .”

Del reached over and touched his hand. “Please, Mr. Stiles?” The fear was still there in his eyes.

He smiled. “Sure, why not?” Billie beamed radiantly and, straightening her apron, went back to the counter where Frank Sipes had fallen sleep on folded arms.

Del looked over at his silent brother. “Hey, Bart,” Del wondered, “what are you working on?”

The older boy had spread the front page of the Friday paper on the table and was doctoring the photo on it with an ink pen. He finished and offered it to Stiles. “Look familiar?”