“There you are,” he told Eleanor and slapped her date on his back. From the look on the date’s mug, it might as well have been the kiss of death.

But whatever hope of maintaining his dignity that King might have entertained was dashed when Eleanor asked loudly, “What are you doing here? What do you want? Did Michael throw you out? No, no, wait. She’s sleeping with the sheriff these days. No, no, I forgot. Somebody shot her. An outraged housewife, you think?”

Say what? Another suspect? I removed my notebook from my pocket and wrote Eleanor’s name under Gretchen’s. Then I crossed out Gretchen’s name. After a moment’s thought, I crossed out Bobby Orman’s, too.

“Eleanor, please,” Koehn said. It wasn’t a plea. It was a warning. And it went right over Eleanor’s head.

“‘Eleanor, please,’” the woman spit back at him.

Bad move. I knew it and so did the other diners. Suddenly it felt like we were watching a tightrope walker who abruptly stops and begins to teeter back and forth, fighting to regain his balance. Suddenly it was no longer amusing. And while no one departed, you could see from the expressions that none of us were sure we wanted to see what would happen next.

“It’s getting late,” the date said and attempted to rise.

“Sit down, fat boy!” Eleanor screeched at him. The date sat. It was clearly a tossup as to who he was more afraid of, husband or wife.

“Slut,” Koehn called his wife.

“Prick,” she countered.

“Whore!”

“Queer!”

“Bitch!” Koehn screamed and pulled the near-empty champagne bottle from the bucket by the neck.

“No!” Eleanor screamed in reply and hid her head behind her arms.

I anticipated the violence. With the first volley of insults I was on the move, and by the time Koehn raised the bottle above his head to crush his wife’s skull, I was in position to pull his arm back. I held it there for a moment as the champagne cascaded over the two of us then yanked hard, wrenching his shoulder and forcing the bottle from his grip. He grunted and tried to hit me with a backhand. I used the bottle to block him, and he hurt his knuckles against the unyielding glass.

“You look ridiculous, Mr. Koehn,” I told him softly.

“Huh?”

“All these people watching, you don’t need this.”

Koehn didn’t move his eyes so much as an eighth of an inch, yet he was suddenly aware of everyone around him.

“He was going to kill me! He tried to kill me, you saw it!” Eleanor shouted to whoever might be listening.

“You’re an important man in Kreel County,” I reminded Koehn. “You can’t act like this.”

His nod was imperceptible to anyone not looking for it.

“Call the police! We need the police!” Eleanor added.

“Now’s a good time to take a walk,” I said. “Clear your head.”

“Call the police!” Eleanor repeated.

“She’s a whore,” Koehn told me. “She’s ruining my life.”

I didn’t know if she was ruining his life or he was ruining hers, and I didn’t care, but I said, “Screw her. Life’s too short.”

“Who are you?” Koehn asked.

“Let’s just say I’ve had woman troubles myself and let it go at that.”

Koehn nodded his thanks, stepped away from me, and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for disturbing your evening. I hope you will forgive me. Good night.”

“Where are you going?!” Eleanor shouted at his back as Koehn moved away. He didn’t reply, didn’t turn his head. “Where are you going?!” she shouted again, louder. She was interrupted by the manager, who informed her that her patronage was no longer welcomed.

“I’ll leave when I’m good and ready,” she told him.

The bouncers on either side of the manager quickly convinced her otherwise. One gripped her elbow and escorted her to the door. The second grabbed her date by his collar, yanked him up out of his chair, and pushed-pulled him in the same direction. In sixty seconds flat their table was cleared and prepared for more genial customers.

I returned to my own table, brushing at the champagne that soaked my new sports coat, wondering what the hell I was doing helping King Koehn. The waitress was standing there. Next to her was the tall Native-American manager in the tailored suit and tie. His eyes were quiet and sure, a take-your-time kind of guy. He said, “Follow me.” I followed.

He led me down a flight of steps to the casino floor and then to the door of a closed office tucked beneath the restaurant. We passed a man and woman loitering at a blackjack table as we went.

“Give me ten dollars,” the man demanded.

“I just gave you ten dollars,” the woman replied.

“So? Give me some more.”

“No.”

“Bitch.”

The manager opened the door and held it for me to enter. I did. The office inside was large and neat to the point where I was uncomfortable to be in it. Even the personal items were arranged with meticulous care and consideration. On the wall behind the desk was an ancient photograph of a naval destroyer mounted in a wood frame. A small gold plate attached to the bottom of the frame identified it as the USS Johnston. I was familiar with the name but couldn’t place it. Sitting beneath the photograph was an elderly Native-American with the sun-drenched face of an outdoorsman. He looked as though he had been through a scrape or two in his time. He nodded at my companion, who nodded back and left the office, shutting the door behind him.

“My name is Carroll Stonetree,” the man behind the desk said without offering his hand. “I sorta run things around here.”

“Carroll?” I asked. The name seemed as inappropriate as his voice. He looked like the warrior who had lifted Custer’s baby finger for a souvenir following the Little Big Horn massacre, but he spoke with a high-pitched reedy voice that made you think he was putting you on.

“Call me Chief,” he said. “That’s a naval title, not tribal. I served some years in the USN.”

“She seems familiar to me,” I said, pointing at the photograph.

“The Johnston? She was lost October 25, 1944.”

“Now I remember. The Battle of Leyte Gulf …”

“Halsey was suckered out into the North Pacific by the Japs,” Stonetree added quickly, as if he was anxious to recite the tale. “He thought he was chasing the entire Imperial Fleet. As it turned out, the entire Imperial Fleet was sneaking through the San Bernardino Strait on its way to launch a surprise attack against MacArthur’s forces on Leyte in the Philippines. Five battleships including the Yamato, ten heavy cruisers, two light cruisers, twelve destroyers.

“The Johnston was part of a small task force that was supporting the landings, three destroyers and four escorts. It was ordered to intercept the Japanese. We engaged three heavy cruisers in succession: the Kumano, Chikuma, and Yahagi. We hurt them. Hurt them bad enough to scatter their ships and buy time for Halsey to regroup. Except they killed us. Fourteen-inch shells, six inchers— they fell on us like heavy rain. One officer said, ‘It was like a puppy being smacked by a truck.’ We fought until every gun was silenced. We lasted two hours. Of a compliment of three hundred twenty-seven, only one hundred and forty-one crewmen survived. But we did the job, we saved MacArthur’s ass; his and Halsey’s. I was seventeen at the time.”

“Lied about your age?”

“I had to get into the war.”

“For three generations the men in my family have been either too young or too old to fight in our nation’s wars,” I told him.

“How lucky for you.”

“I’ve always thought so,” I admitted. “The Johnston, she lost her skipper.”

“Commander Ernest E. Evans. He was a Cherokee. Finest man I ever knew. He shook my hand the day I came aboard the Johnston. He told me, us Indians—we were Indians back then, not Native-Americans—us Indians he said, we had to be twice as good as everyone else. He was ten times as good. History doesn’t even remember him.”