Caddy waved her over. Tashi met the two women at the bar. The girl with the sleeve tat a little glassy-eyed and giggly. She cut a glance over at Caddy and then back at Tashi. “Did you really think I was dead? Now, that’s funny.”

*   *   *

Bentley had been coming to the same steakhouse in Jackson since he was a kid. His dad used to take him in the dank, smoky building and set him up at the bar, ordering a Roy Rogers and a Macallan neat, making a joke to the bartender about who got the scotch. Everyone there seemed to know his dad, bringing him a second drink without asking, not ever needing to know how he liked his filet cooked. Before they added flat-screens to the restaurant walls, next to all the pictures of athletes, politicos, and country stars, Bentley used to just sit there alone and observe. Gray-headed men huddled over small tables, cigarettes burning in ashtrays, conferring in private. His dad often disappeared back behind the bar and through the swinging doors to the kitchen. Where did he go? Bentley didn’t know and only asked once, his dad winking at him behind the wheel of the big black Mercedes he always kept. “Tasting the soup,” he said.

The steakhouse had been there ever since he could remember, a small stand-alone building toward the county line, anonymous and tucked away among all the gas stations, motels, and strip malls. Sitting at the bar now, he made small talk with a waitress, feeling bad for her having to wear a tight black T-shirt and black jogging shorts, old men eyeing her as she held trays loaded down with bloody steaks and fat baked potatoes. Her tee so tight it looked like it was about to bust.

“Where’s your dad?” she asked.

“He’s coming.”

“He sure is funny.”

“Oh, yes,” Bentley said. “This is his second home.”

“How about another?” she asked, pointing at his glass.

Bentley looked up and grinned. “Twist my arm.”

The waitress brought him another full glass of Maker’s Mark, writing her phone number and a smiley face in the corner of the napkin. Bentley could never tell if the girls here really liked him or only cared about his family. Either way, he couldn’t call. He had too much trouble as it was and planned to get good and stinking drunk tonight. He’d leave his car here and Uber it back to his apartment. He was supposed to be back in Tibbehah County, doing whatever it was he was supposed to be doing for his foundation, by noon tomorrow. A new grant. Finish that all-purpose building for Caddy.