He made last call at the motel bar—in fact, the bartender called out “last call” extra loud even though Warlock and an old wrangling couple were the only occupants. The bartender was guarded as Warlock laid out a crisp C-note, ordering a double for both of them. Does he think I’m a cop?

“Don’t drink. Quit when I started here. Behind the bar you see what it does to people.” He nodded at the old couple whose discussion seemed to rise to blows.

“Doesn’t do shit to me. Two drinks a day, that’s it.” Warlock sometimes wondered where his dialogue came from. He hoped like an actor he was learning to swing with the situation. “Supposed to drive up to Fort Pierce, but I’m feeling tired. They got any room?” He yawned a phony yawn.

“Never. I been here two years and there’s never a vacancy from the first of December until April. We got the fucking apple sauce and cottage cheese crowd. That’s why my fucking tips are so small. They ought to raise the rates. These old fuckers are driving me up the wall. Had a party of six and they left me a quarter.” The bartender punctuated his diatribes with vicious swipes of the counter with a wet rag.

“Shit. I got another hour behind the wheel.” Presto, I got the information. He had come on a hunch and it paid off; better than renting and sitting in the fruit vendor’s semi, spying on the place, which he had been considering. He tuned his hearing to the argument.

“Lyman, you keep drinking that beer and farting. You keep farting and you’re going to sleep on the couch.”

“I like beer,” he stretched the “like” out into a silly whine.

“Beer stops you up. It always stops you up.”

“Everything stops me up. It always has.” Lyman exchanged glances with Warlock.

“If you’d walk with me in the morning you wouldn’t be stopped up.”

“You say herring stops you up. And you eat herring. I’m not walking on that goddamn beach.” The old man sensed he had an audience. “I like sidewalks. Sidewalks used to be good enough for you before birds. Now you all the time want to look at birds. I don’t give fuck-all for all these birds. I read birds are related to snakes. To me birds are just shitting snakes that shit on the pool furniture….”

“I love it when you get angry, Lyman,” she interrupted him, drinking deeply from a whiskey sour. “You’ve always been so attractive when you’re angry. It brings so much life to your face.”

Chapter 37