The bartender called out to them. “Sit anyplace.” Her voice was cracked and husky, maybe from continually having to be heard over loud music. “Someone’ll be right with you.”

It was smaller than it looked from the outside, with a horseshoe bar and the stage taking up a broad portion of floor space. Booths lined one wall, and a wooden staircase led to a mezzanine with a cocktail bar and VIP area. There were a few tables arranged on the main floor, which would probably get cleared away once the bands started rocking. Luke and Kitty bypassed these and pulled up stools at the bar. The smoky-haired woman raised her head, regarded them briefly, then went back to her wine.

“Give me a minute,” the bartender said. She was dressed in a Stray Bullets cowboy hat and T-shirt (available in the merch store), had three rings through her upper lip and a lower-back tattoo that announced itself when she bent over to finish loading Red Bulls into a refrigerator.

“No hurry,” Luke said, mock-cheery, but Kitty could tell how anxious he was. There was a hitch in his voice she’d never heard before, and his eyes scanned every which way, looking for his bat-faced man.

The music changed from Ozzy to Nirvana. Luke took out his phone and opened PictoShark, while Kitty grabbed a handful of nuts from a bowl on the bar and munched them, gazing idly at the Wild West décor. Not everything fit. There were fake powder kegs and spittoons (emblazoned with the Stray Bullets logo) and coatracks fashioned from wagon wheels, but there were also several electric guitars bolted to the wall next to the stage, and a gallery of celebrity photos, all taken at the venue. Kitty recognized some of them: Lenny Kravitz, Johnny Depp, the singer from Pearl Jam. She scanned them all, curious to see if Johan was among them. Kitty didn’t know if this place considered social media personalities to be celebrities, but Johan was vain enough to pay to have his picture included.

He wasn’t there, though. Thankfully. Kitty could go the rest of her life without seeing his face again.

“What can I get you?” The bartender dusted off her hands and curled her pierced lip into a smile. She had a small star tattooed on her right cheekbone. Her name tag read savannah.

“Too early for firewater?” Luke asked, working a smile of his own.

“Never too early,” Savannah responded.

Luke’s smile broadened. He was hiding his celebrity, wearing an old Raiders cap and a pair of non-prescription glasses—a “disguise” he’d pulled from the Caliber’s glove compartment. Kitty had noticed his handgun in there, too, the .38 Special he’d strapped to his side when posing as the homicide cop. Unlike the badge, it wasn’t a fake.