“God, I haven’t seen you for how long?” Ansley Cuthbert said, turning up a cold Pabst, looking like a Southern version of Amy Winehouse, with her stiff-teased hair up in the red bandanna and with sharp-drawn eye makeup. “Five years? Ten years? I wanted to find you so many times, Caddy, but I knew what you had been doing back home and didn’t want to make any trouble. I wasn’t so sure you wanted to hear from me.”

Tashi didn’t say a word, sitting beside Caddy Colson in a worn-out booth under a blazing PABST BLUE RIBBON neon sign, wondering if any of the audio would be worth a crap so close to the jukebox. She’d watched Ansley Cuthbert load a pocket full of quarters to play nothing but Johnny Cash and Elvis. Get rhythm when you get the blues . . .

“More like ten,” Caddy said. “And you can come see me anytime. I’m not embarrassed by my past. You know how Jericho can be. Everyone knows it anyway. What does it even matter?”

“How’s your kid?” Ansley asked. “A son. Right?”

“Jason,” Caddy said. “He’s eleven.”

“And you’re a preacher now?” Ansley said.

“Never,” Caddy said. “I run a nonprofit out toward Sugar Ditch that helps low-income families with meals, healthcare, and spiritual growth.”

“Damn, girl,” Ansley said. “Look at you. Me? I’m still slinging cocktails five nights a week at a new place over by Overton Square. They call me a master mixologist, whatever the hell that is. I work part-time at Goner Records and volunteer some at the Pink Palace. I guess that’s something. Better than the old days. Oh, God. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk about back then, should I? I’m so sorry.”

Caddy shook her head as she placed her hand on Ansley’s leg and told her there were no secrets between them. Tashi studied the long curl of tattoos on Ansley’s left arm, trying to decipher their meaning. The tattoos were well done, all in black ink. Stars, a Buddha, a black rose, Escher’s twirling staircase. And a year. 1997? Did she see that? Ansley caught Tashi staring, moved her arm off the table, and turned to her with a smile.

“I heard y’all were in Tibbehah,” Ansley said, leaning forward, gripping her left elbow with her right hand, covering up the tattoo. “That Brandon Taylor thing is a real sad story. Do y’all really think someone killed him?”

“We think there is a strong possibility,” Tashi said. “Did you hear the sheriff’s office dug up a body of a young woman on the same land where Brandon used to hunt?”

“No kidding?” Ansley said, nodded, taking a long sip of beer, closing her eyes for a moment and then opening them again. “That sure is something. Do you have a picture of Jason, Caddy? God, I’d love to see him.”