The 126 was a big place, with blond wood and kitschy décor that ranged from big-game animal heads to vintage hubcaps to coconut monkey faces. It had a central room where they put up metal folding chairs on movie night, and they could seat almost two hundred people. Then there was the long bar, with fake Tiffany chandeliers, neon signs for Budweiser and Bartles & Jaymes, a few beer taps, and red upholstered chairs that bore the butt prints of the regulars. Smaller rooms jutted off from the bar area, where you could play pool, foosball, pinball, and video games.

All this, and there was only one toilet stall for the women. The lines got long.

Ricky and I settled in next to each other for the Bond flick Never Say Never Again. He put his hand on my bare thigh. The lights went down low, but the noise didn’t. Movie night here was mostly a social thing. If you actually wanted to watch the film, you were in the wrong place. People made shadow puppets on the screen and shouted out the dialogue, because we’d all seen the movie before. Neighbors talked and joked, and teenagers made out, and kids ran around screaming, and we all got drunk. Me included. Very drunk. I drank way too much beer. By the time James Bond was sleeping with Fatima Blush, I was tipsy. I was also dancing in my chair because I needed to pee.

So I headed for the bathrooms, which were down a corridor near the back door, where it was as cold as a meat locker. I passed through a cloud of cigarette smoke and added to the cloud by lighting one myself. The hallway smelled of burnt popcorn and urine. Ten women waited for the bathroom, and I swore at the line, because I didn’t think I was going to last that long.

Sandra Thoreau stood in front of me. She laughed at my summer dress. “What the hell are you wearing, honey?”

I rolled my eyes. “Ricky’s idea.”

“Yeah, no shit. You want to borrow my coat for a minute?”

“You’re awesome. Could I?”

Sandra slipped off her wool coat, and I stuck my arms inside the sleeves and wrapped it around myself, feeling warm for the first time in two hours.

“How goes the Brink case?” she asked me. “Know who carved him up yet?”

“No.”

“Getting close?”

“No, we’re nowhere. Darrell’s not happy.”

“Too bad.”

My head spun with the alcohol, and I talked more than I should. “Nobody cares anyway,” I said.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Kip, Racer, Brink. They were bad men.”

“Yes, they were.”

“Nobody cares,” I said again. “Nobody cares about bad men.”

“Hey, Rebecca?” Sandra murmured, her voice going down to a whisper as she put her lips to my ear.

“Yeah?”

“Ricky’s a bad man, too.”