I pictured McDonald’s, but then I was always picturing McDonald’s. I’d take a Quarter Pounder with Cheese over just about any other foodstuff on earth.

He drove us across town and pulled into a supermarket parking lot where a fellow and his wife had set up a portable barbeque that was attached to a camper shell. The rolling metal rig was black, about the size of a double-wide utility sink, with a pulley and chain that allowed for the raising and lowering of a rack. Chunks of meat had been laid on the grill over hot coals, and the smoky smell of charred beef filled the air. To one side, buttered rolls had been cut in half and placed on the grill.

A steady stream of cars was turning into the lot, taking advantage of the numerous empty parking spaces. On a card table, I could see piles of paper napkins, paper plates, plastic cutlery, and numerous plastic tubs of salsa and beans. Nearby three portable picnic tables were set up with aluminum lawn chairs. An ice chest contained cold cans of soda for a quarter apiece.

We parked as close as we could and eased into a line that was easily twenty-five people long. The wait was worth it, and I made no attempt to tidy up my manners as we ate.

“Geez, how do they do this? It’s great!” I said with my mouth half-full.

“Santa Maria barbecue. That’s tri-tip,” he said. “You rub it with salt, pepper, and garlic salt, and cook it over red oak.”

“Fabulous.”

Both of us licked our fingers before opening the moist towelette packets provided with the meal. When my hands were clean, I said, “Thanks. What a treat.”

“You’re welcome.”

We walked back to his car, freeing up our lawn chairs for the people waiting to sit down. We lingered outside his car while he lit his after-meal cigarette. His thin candy-coating of mirth had dropped away and something darker had emerged. This was not a happy man. There was a heaviness about him that seemed to taint the very air. Apropos of nothing, he held up his cigarette. “Know why I’m doing this?”

“She won’t let you smoke inside.”

He flicked a look at me. “How’d you know?”

“I was in the house. No ashtrays.”

“She runs a tight ship.”

“A lot of people feel that way about smoking,” I said mildly, not mentioning that I was one.

“Hey, don’t I know it. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about that.”

I didn’t ask what “that” he was referring to. Instead I said, “Fine. We can talk about Violet, then.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “She was a tramp.”

Kathy had used the same term. I said, “Come on. Everybody says she was a tramp. Tell me something I haven’t heard.”

I watched his face, wondering what was going on behind his eyes.