French said, “Ah, good times,” but that’s not what showed on his face. He wanted the man afraid, so he put that in his eyes, instead, the kind of cop who could beat an innocent man into confession, then take a child for ice cream with the blood still wet on his knuckles. “This kid.” French placed a photograph on the bar. “Was he in here tonight?”

“Never seen him.”

“Someone beat him half to death, then dropped him in a ditch two hundred yards from your front door.”

“What happens beyond that door is not my problem.”

“Thing is, lawnmower man, the kid is my son. I mention that simple fact so you might imagine the kind of fire I’ll rain down on anyone who lies to me about this. It’s a pot you don’t want to stir. Not tonight. Not with me at the bottom of it. Look at the picture again.”

“I don’t need to.”

“You really do.”

“It’s like I said. We’re closed to cops.”

The bartender began to turn away, but French caught his wrist, and jerked him halfway across the bar. He fought back, but fear had always made French strong, and he was afraid for his son. “I have three questions,” he said. “So I suggest you look closely at this photograph.” He held the photo in one hand, and used his other to squeeze so hard that bones ground together in the bartender’s wrist. “Was my son here? What was he doing here? Who was he with?” The questions came fast, but need was the other side of fear. “We’ll start at the beginning. Was this young man here tonight?”

“No, man. No. Jesus.” The bones ground audibly. “No kid, not tonight. Dude, I swear. Come on, that hurts!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie?” French twisted harder, and felt bones flex. “Oh God! Oh Jesus!”

The pressure stayed on until tears sprang up in the bartender’s eyes. “What about you?” French swung on the drunks at the bar. One shook his head, terrified. The other fell off the back of his stool, then ran for the exit, stumbling twice before French tripped him from behind, and pinned him with a knee. “Why are you running? What are you so afraid of?”