Merker approached the bar, which was hosting a late-lunch crowd, more interested in chowing down on chicken wings than getting plastered, and called the bartender over.

“Annette around?” he asked.

“Not in till six,” the bartender said.

“Oh shit, that’s too bad,” Merker said. “I had some money I owed her.”

I thought, No, surely this old ruse won’t work.

“Oh yeah?” said the bartender, a tall, bearded man with a bent nose. “Whatcha owe money to her for?”

“She helped, on her day off, at a party I was giving. A work thing. She ran the bar for me, but I couldn’t pay her then, so I was dropping by to make it right.”

The bartender scowled. “We got party facilities here. You could have had it right here, you know?”

Merker laughed nervously. “Yeah, well, that woulda been good, but there was a bit of other entertainment, the kind you don’t offer here, you know what I mean?”

The bartender smiled and nodded. “Okay.” He tipped his head toward me. “Who’s your friend?”

“Hostage,” I said.

“Listen,” Merker said. “You got a number for her, or a home address, I could take care of this?”

“We don’t give out addresses or numbers for the staff,” the bartender said. “Sorry.”

“Oh,” said Merker. “’Cause I’m heading out of town today, won’t be back for three weeks, and I wanted to get this money to her before I left. But fuck it, I’m sure she can wait. Can you tell her I was by, that I’ll try to get back in a month or so to pay her what I owe her?”

Now the bartender was reconsidering. Maybe this was going to work. He didn’t want Annette blaming him when she didn’t get what she was owed. He didn’t want to listen to her whining for a month, or till whenever this guy came by again. “Shit,” he said. “She could probably use the dough, what with the kid and all.”

Merker shrugged, like it wasn’t up to him anymore. Don’t push too hard, he was thinking.

“Hang on,” said the bartender, and he disappeared to a back room. He was back two minutes later with a piece of paper. Written on it were an address and phone number. Merker glanced at it, folded it once, and shoved it into his pocket. “Thanks,” he said, and the bartender saluted.

Back in the truck, we headed for Galveston Street, a low-income neighborhood of semidetached homes with sagging porches. He ran the truck up onto the curb out front of 18 Galveston, a two-story house with a tattered stroller by the door. “I didn’t know she had a fucking kid,” Merker said. “Bring the wig and the ID and shit.”