“Not yet. How long have you been here?”

“Eight minutes. Maybe ten.”

“Any movement?”

“The bartender’s there, and a skinny girl, sweeping. Two old drunks are pretty much facedown on the bar. Everything else looks quiet.”

French studied the building and the darkness around it. Quiet could be dangerous at times, but this did not feel like one of those moments. “It wasn’t like this before.”

“It’s been two hours since we found your son. Blue lights. The cherry. Some people spook easy.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Listen.” The uniformed cop hooked an elbow through the open window. “We’ll play this any way you want, but I’m not sure you need us. The bartender. A couple of old drunks.”

French didn’t blame them. End of shift. A long night. “It’s fine. You boys go on home.” He watched them go, then locked the car, and walked to the bar. The lights inside were up, a record spinning on the jukebox.

Allman Brothers.

“Ain’t Wastin’ Time No More”

The uniforms had been right about the men at the bar. One slept. The other slumped, peeling the label off a bottle of Budweiser. The skinny girl with the broom was sweeping up dust in the far right corner. As French watched, she did a little dance move with the broom, startled to complete the turn and see a strange man standing where none had been a moment before.

“I’m looking for the bartender.” He flashed the tin, and she pointed at an open door as a man stepped through from a back room. Tall and narrow-shouldered, he seemed familiar to French, a round-faced man with a twelve-pack under one arm, and two vodkas bottlenecked in the other hand.

“We’re closed,” he said.

“Sign says Open.”

“We’re closed to cops.” The bartender put the bottles on the bar, then barked at the girl with the broom. “Eyes on the floor, Janelle. It won’t sweep itself.”

Janelle twitched into motion, no dance left. French assumed there was a gun behind the bar, so he drew back enough coat to show the revolver on his hip.

Just to be clear.

To be sure.

Crossing the room, he kept his eyes on everyone, but mostly the bartender. He’d seen him somewhere before, ten or twelve years ago. Snapping his fingers, he said, “Hey. Lawnmower man.”

The bartender scowled, shaking his head.

But French was right. He couldn’t remember the name, but in the spring of ’61, this guy and some idiot friend robbed a late-night market, and tried to escape on a riding mower. He’d caught them a mile down the road, still holding cash and stolen beer, still drunk, and entirely, hilariously out of gas.

The booking officers had had a field day at their expense.

So had the local paper.