I said, "What's he been doing since he got out of jail?"

"Same thing he always does. Drinks, smokes, borrows money from me, and lies around on his butt. Occasionally he helps out, but only if I scream loud enough. Then he'll sometimes do dishes or he'll grocery shop. I guess I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Has he been looking for work?"

"Says he has, but in this town, there isn't much to do. There's an opening at the Dairy Queen, but he thinks that's beneath him. I don't know where he got that. He's down so low, there's nothing under him as far as I can see. It's only a matter of time before he blows it again. I don't get how that works. Every time a guy screws up, there's always some gal around to feel sorry for him. In this case, it's me."

"I know one of those," I said, thinking of Iona.

"It's guilt," Stacey said.

"Is that it? Well, I guess. He always seems so sincere. Every time I look at him, I see him at nine. He got caught when he stole two silver picture frames from a neighbor lady across the street. What in hell did he want with two silver picture frames? Then he cried like a baby and swore up and down he'd never do it again."

"How long did that last?"

"About a month. I forget what he stole next-something equally useless. I can lecture him all I like; scream and yell. He knows exactly what to say to reel me in again. He's not dumb by any stretch, but he's lazy as all get out. He does whatever works in the moment without a thought in his head about the consequence. I'm sorry, I don't know how I got off on that. You want me to have him call you when he gets back?"

"If you would, that'd be great," Stacey said, taking out a ballpoint pen. "You have a piece of paper? I can give you the number."

"You can write it on the cover of that Cosmopolitan. I never throw those out."

Stacey jotted down the name of our motel, the number, and our two room numbers on the cover of the magazine.

"You might write your names down so I don't forget," she said, meaning that she already had.

Stacey scribbled our names, then clicked his pen and tucked it away. "When he goes out, do you have any idea where? We'll be happy to scout around and see if we can find him ourselves."

"There's a tavern – just a little hole-in-the-wall – over on Vine. You might try there. I can't think where else he might be, unless he drove into Blythe."

"Who's he hang out with?"

"No one that I know. He's been in jail so many times, he doesn't have many friends left. He did get a couple of phone calls Thursday night.