Dwayne was his constant companion. Dickhead was not really an accurate descriptor, at least not when applied to Dwayne's features. He reminded Nick more of an oversized insect.

Dwayne was thin and brittle with spidery legs and arms. He looked as if he'd crunch if you stepped on him. He twitched a lot, too, like a bug that had been hit with a dose of pesticide.

Bar stools were uncomfortable for a man of Eugene's proportions. Nick looked for his quarry in one of the booths.

Eugene was there, sitting at a grimy table with Dwayne. The big man faced the door, in true Old West gunslinger style. There was just enough light coming from the little candle in the red glass holder to reveal the meanness in his eyes and the ragged tears in the grimy tee shirt stretched over his belly.

Interviewing Mean Eugene was not going to be easy.

Nick went toward the booth. He nodded once at Fred when he went past the bar.

"Fred."

"How you doin', Nick?" Fred did not look up from the little television set he had positioned behind the bar. He was watching a long-running soap opera. Fred was addicted to the soaps.

"Doin' okay, thanks," Nick said.

Civilities completed, he moved on to the booth and stopped. He looked at Eugene and Dwayne.

"Can I buy you gentlemen a beer?" he asked.

Dwayne, who'd been concentrating on a dripping cheeseburger, started and looked up with a startled expression. Clearly the word gentlemen had confounded him. And with good reason, Nick thought.

But Eugene, always the faster of the two, chortled. "So we're gentlemen now, huh? Hell, yes, you can buy us a couple of beers. Never say no to a free beer. Besides, it ain't every day a Harte wanders in here and makes an offer like that, now, is it? Sit down."

"Thanks." Nick considered and discarded the prospect of sharing one of the torn, orange vinyl benches with either Eugene or Dwayne. When you dealt with guys like this you did not want to find yourself wedged into a tight place.

He glanced around, spotted a scarred wooden chair at a nearby table, and grabbed it. He reversed it and sat down astride, resting his folded arms on the back.

Eugene swiveled his head, an amazing feat considering that he lacked any sign of an actual neck.

"Hey, Fred," Eugene called loudly. "Harte, here, is gonna stand me and Dwayne to a coupla beers. Give us some of that good stuff you've got on draft."

Fred did not reply, but he reached for two glasses without turning away from the television screen, where someone was dying bravely in a hospital bed.

Eugene squinted malevolently. "You didn't come here to be friendly, Harte. Your type doesn't hang out with guys like us. Whatcha want?"

"Yeah," Dwayne said around a mouthful of burger. "Whatcha want?"

Nick kept his attention on Eugene. "Mind if I ask you a couple of questions, Eugene?"

"You can ask." Eugene polished off the last of the beer he had been drinking when Nick arrived. He wiped his mouth on the back of his shirtsleeve. "I'll decide if I feel like answering."

"I hear you've been speculating openly on the question of who might have taken that painting that's gone missing from the gallery up the street," Nick said casually.

"Hell, I knew it." Eugene uttered a satisfied little snort, savoring his own brilliance. "So you're playing detective, huh? Just like the guy in your books? What's his name? True?"

Nick raised his brows. "You read my books, Eugene?"

"Nan. I don't read much. I'm more into the sports channel, y'know? XXXtreme Fringe Wrestling is my favorite program."

"Mine, too," Dwayne volunteered. "That's the one where the women fight almost buck-nekked. They just wear those little leather thong things, y'know? You oughta see those tits flapping around in the ring."

"Hard for a book to compete with that kind of upscale entertainment," Nick said.

"Yeah," Eugene agreed. "But I seen your novels down at Fulton's when they come out in paperback. They got that little rack next to the checkout counter, y'know?"

"Amazing that Fulton's even bothers to stock my books, given that so few people around here are inclined to read them."

"Hey, you're our only local author and besides, you're a Harte." Eugene's voice hardened. "Everyone thinks that gives you special status in Eclipse Bay."

Nick was saved from having to respond directly to that tricky conversational gambit by a loud, jarring crash. Fred had just slammed two glasses of beer down onto the top of the bar.

"Come and get it, Eugene," Fred called, turning back to his soap. "No table service until four-thirty when Nellie shows up for the evening. You know that."

"Allow me." Nick got to his feet and went to the bar to collect the beers. He set them on the table and sat down again.

"Well, well, well." Eugene grabbed his beer and hauled it closer. "Never thought the day would come when I'd get served by a Harte." He gulped some beer and lowered the glass. "How about that, Dwayne? One of the honchos of Eclipse Bay just bought us a beer and served it, too. What d'ya think of that?"

"Weird," Dwayne said. He snickered and downed a hefty swallow from his own glass. "Damn weird."

You couldn't discuss things rationally with these two, Nick reminded himself. It would have been the equivalent of engaging in a conversation concerning the origins and meaning of the universe with a pair of particularly dimwitted bulls. The best you could hope to do was prod them in the direction you wanted them to take.

"Heard you've been doing a little detecting, yourself, Eugene," Nick said. "Sandy over at the station says you've got a theory about just who might have made off with that painting."

Eugene blinked a couple of times and then managed to make the intellectual leap required to grasp the meaning of the sentence.

"Yep, that's me, all right," Eugene said, sounding pleased. "Detective Eugene Woods." He grinned at Dwayne. "Got a ring to it, don't it?"

Dwayne snorted. "A real ring."

Eugene turned back to Nick. "I know who took that painting, but you ain't gonna like it." He put the glass down with a decisive clang and wiped his mouth on the back of his shirt. "Makes you look downright stupid, Harte."

"I've looked that way before," Nick said. "I'll get past it."

Eugene cackled so hard he choked. It took him a while to recover his wind. "Always enjoyed the sight of a stupid-looking Harte."

"I can't help feeling that this conversation is losing its focus," Nick said gently. "Could we return to the subject at hand?"

Eugene stopped grinning. His heavy features twisted into an expression of deep suspicion. Probably worried that he had just been insulted and not quite certain how to react, Nick thought.

Eugene, being Eugene and therefore extremely predictable in some ways, did what he always did in such circumstances. He went on the offensive.

"You wanna know what I think, Harte? I'll tell you. Only solid suspect far as I can see is your new girlfriend, the gallery lady. And you're screwing her. Ain't that a kick in the head? The big-time detective is screwing the prime suspect." He looked at Dwayne. "Ain't that a kick in the head, Dwayne?"

"Yeah," Dwayne said obediently. "A real kick in the head."

Eugene leaned across the table to make his point to Nick. "How do you like them apples, Mr. High-and-Mighty Harte? Looks like the lady has you by the short hairs. How's it feel to be led around by your balls?"

"Before we go into that, maybe you'd like to tell me where you heard this theory," Nick said.

"What makes you think I heard it somewheres else?"

Eugene's features transformed as if by magic, shifting from malicious glee to a twisted glare. "Maybe I came up with it all by myself. You think you're the only smart one around here?"