“We positive it was suicide?”

Boss Man spread his hands and did an Alfred E. Neuman shrug.

“Told you; I don’t know shit from Shinola about that.”

“He a customer?” I pantomimed smoking.

“Uh-uh. Not directly. His friends were and he got it from them. He came in here to bowl, grab a burger. The regular stuff. Sweet kid, to tell the truth. I’m sorry he fell into the pit, or whatever.”

“Indeed, whatever. Got a theory?”

“I don’t have an opinion.” He noted the threatening shift in my posture. “Easy, easy. I know what it says on the tin—he jumped and took a nosedive. Everybody got paid. Everybody’s happy. There’s always rumors to the contrary. Conspiracy theories, right? He was suicidal. He saw something he shouldn’t have; he was fucking the wrong gal—”

“Or she was fucking the wrong guy and they iced hubby for the insurance money.”

“Yeah, I heard that one too. Who wouldn’t contemplate snagging a cool million by hook or by crook? Then there’s the plain vanilla theory—industrial accidents happen. He tripped over his shoelaces. The end.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“I tend to believe what’s in front of me and doesn’t cause headaches. Cops say he tossed himself over.”

“Ever meet the wife? Linda?”

“Nope.”

“The Jeffers Project,” I said, ticking off my list.

“The Redlick Boondoggle. Money was sweet until it dried up. What’d the town get? Clear-cut land and a bunch of rusting shacks. Yeah, and a big ol’ hole.”

“You have customers on-site when the project was going great guns? A few? A lot? Any of them harbor interesting opinions on the Pruitt matter?”

“Course I had customers,” he said. “Goddamned boomtown. Made a shitload of dollars. Man you want to speak with is Lenny Herzog. Batty old guy was in charge of general maintenance at the Jeffers Colony. Herzog is the caretaker. He lives in the hills west of here, past Morrow Village and Buck Springs. Every fella out there has a gun and a dog. Not a man jack of them will like the cut of your jib.”

“Let’s discuss the Redlicks—”

“Gonna stop you there, chief. Redlicks pay the freight in Horseheads.”

“The Redlick Group, then.”

“Redlick family, Redlick Group. Difference without a distinction.”

As casually as I could, I mentioned the Mares and observed his expression. Less thrilling or revealing than I’d hoped. More surprised than anything else.

“Wowsers. How’d you hear about the Mares of Thrace?”

“Ah, that’s the whole title. I saw them on Vulture Bluff.”

“People born here go their whole lives and not catch hide or hair of those ones. Don’t like to be seen. You spot them in costume, it’s what they wanted.”

“So, give me the lowdown.”

“Goofy fuckers.”

“Obviously. Any of them frequent your fine establishment?”

He hesitated, weighing his words.

“Three or four years ago, a man and a woman in those throwback costumes they wear came in off the street and wandered around. Five minutes before closing. Place was empty except for me and the janitor. The couple didn’t say boo. Just grinned and walked to the trash and dug in there for the spoiled hamburger patties. They chowed down on the way out the door. I recognized the guy from around. He thanked me for the ‘provender’ and laughed.”