“Why not?”

“You bought in like you thought the Tooth Fairy was going to tuck a quarter under your pillow. Besides, I’ve seen enough weird white boys the past few days to easily suspend any disbelief.”

“Say you aren’t converting into a true believer,” he said.

“I’m a devout agnostic. Let Herzog have his tall tales. The stakes are low. It doesn’t matter either way. So, why not?”

“When are the stakes ever low?” He wasn’t talking to me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I’d spotted a respectable motel on the edge of town where Bellow and Lionel could bunk until we rendezvoused the next day. I tried to escape while the boys were chatting with the clerk, but Lionel caught me in the lot and insisted on drinks. I told him he’d had plenty of drinks (two of Herzog’s Blue plus a six-pack of Genesee) and he said, nonsense, besides, neither Johnny Law nor I had done our share. Hell’s bells, amigo, it was scarcely half-past eight. No way were we letting a perfectly fine evening go to waste. What was the name of that village up the road near the Jeffers Colony? Morrow? That settled it; we were gonna see what the locals had for a bar and write it off as recon.

I glanced toward Bellow in an appeal to common sense. He shrugged and said a couple of shots didn’t sound bad.

Half an hour later we arrived among a jag of buildings somewhere in another scenic patch of backwoods hill country. Morrow was as old as the surrounding forest; moss and grapevine threaded street signs and climbed the infrequent lamp pole. Gas station, post office, general store, and a tavern was the sum of Main Street. Bramble reared neck-high to a giraffe between copses of trees. I was sure houses lay hidden farther back. Two drunks stumbled into the middle of the street, yelling at each other. One of the men tripped over a pothole and busted his ass. His buddy shrieked laughter and busted his ass too. I parked under an oak and sat there while the engine ticked.

“This ain’t no tourist trap.” Lionel gestured toward the sultry allure of a neon silhouette of an hourglass woman who beckoned thirsty travelers to the Black Powder Tavern. Mist crept in from the woods and the electric light of the sign tinted it crimson. “She is what the hipsters refer to as authentic.”

“I’m soaking it in.” I eyed the collection of 1970s and ’80s cars and trucks in front of the tavern. Trans Am, Corvette, a cherry Pontiac Firebird, and some junkyard-treasure pickups. A handful of motorcycles as well. At least two-thirds of Morrow’s adult population must’ve been bellied up to the trough getting plastered. I’d left my brass knuckles at home, more’s the pity.

Several patrons smoked near an oil drum. Their cool appraisal made clear we were recognized as tourists. The joint was hopping, but not packed. Low, water-stained ceiling; sawdust floor; a knotty bar, hewn and stained; jukebox and two pool tables; strong odors of booze and sweat. Loud, of course. I snagged a booth in the corner as a pair of woozy dudes in mismatched plaid vacated. Lionel bought a pitcher of something cheap and sudsy.