She shrugged, quietly amused. “I think I’m safe enough.”

“You can’t know that.”

“My father is pulling a dime for the club. Central Prison.”

“So this place?”

“It’s easy money, and it’s like I said, no one touches me unless they want every Hells Angel in the state gunning for them.”

“This is a club bar?”

“Yes and no. A couple nights a week.”

“And the bartender?”

“A wannabe.”

French was feeling better now: slower thoughts, some kind of order. “It’s Janelle, right?”

“It is.”

“What can I do for you, Janelle?”

She looked away, and small teeth appeared as she caught her bottom lip. “That boy is really your son?”

“He was here, then. Did you see what happened?”

“I’m no rat. I noticed him, is all.”

“And…?”

“And he was my age and cute and kind of sweet-looking.”

“He almost died, right up there in the ditch, dumped like trash with his head kicked in.” She shook her head, then showed the same twilight eyes. “It’s just us, Janelle. All alone, no one around.” She hesitated, but French was close. “What would your father do if it were you, half-dead in a ditch? What would you want him to do? My son is only eighteen. He’s your age…”

“Okay, all right. Enough. Jesus.” She lit another cigarette. “Look, it’s like I said. I was working, and I saw him, and I paid attention. Good-looking. Kind of earnest. I couldn’t hear everything he said, but I know he was asking about Tyra Norris…”

“Tyra Norris. You’re certain about that name?”

“Hey, I’m no rat, but I’m not stupid, either. He was asking about Tyra Norris—I heard it plain as day—and before someone killed that bitch dead, she was the original slut-whore from hell. Bikers. Truckers. Even a few cops.” She pointed with the cigarette, one eye half-closed. “Maybe that’s what got your boy beat.”

In the driveway an hour later, French saw a light in Gibby’s room. He wanted desperately to see his son, to know he was okay, but also to push hard about Tyra Norris and the Carriage Room. But time, he decided, was a friend. Let the resentments settle, the angers fade. Going to his office instead, French poured a drink, and squared Jason’s military records on the desk, staring at the envelope until the drink was gone.

Three in the morning.

Lots of dark left.