Inside, she looked around the room.

"So neat," she said. "Whyn't you have room service bring us up a drink? I gotta freshen up a little."

"You bet."

She was in the bathroom for a long time. When she came out I could see that she had worked on her hair a little, and there was a fresh smell of newly sprayed perfume.

"Room service come yet?"

"Not yet," I said.

"Well maybe we should lie on the bed and wait for them," she said.

"That would be swell," I said.

She walked over to the bed, and lay down on it. She smiled at me and patted the bed beside her.

"Come on," she said. "I won't bite."

I sat on the edge of the bed next to her.

"So tell me a little about Steve Buckman," I said.

She stared up at me. Her eyes were unfocused. Her pupils looked very big.

"Steve?"

"Yes, what was he really like?"

She kept looking at me.

"Come on," she said. "Let's do it now."

"You think Steve was different than he seemed?" I said.

Her eyelids drooped. I thought she might be trying to look vampish. Then her eyelids shut. I was saved. She was asleep. I straightened her out a little, put the

Chapter 9

WHEN I CAME back into the bar, the bartender gave me a look full of questions he knew he shouldn't ask.

"Beer," I said.

"Will there be a gimlet with that, sir?"

"Couldn't resist, could you?" I said.

He shrugged.

"There's always other jobs," he said.

"Mrs. Taylor is resting," I said.

The bartender smiled.

"She started resting as soon as we got upstairs," I said.

"Never heard it called that," the bartender said.

"Beer," I said.

He brought it and moved back down the bar, smiling to himself. I sipped a little beer.

I missed Susan. I was spending too much time alone in my head. Solitary speculation is good up to a point. Your mind is uncluttered. You can focus. But with no one to test your perceptions against, things eventually began to circle on themselves. I had spent a lot of time during my life inside my own head. Since I'd been with Susan I had her to help me think, and even when I was away from her, I could sometimes clear my head by explaining things to her in absentia.

It was clear that Bebe was restive in her marriage. Indeed.

Everything else is less clear. If I believed what she told me, then things are not quite what they had seemed. This is not surprising. Almost nothing is quite what it seems. Even The Preacher is a little different than I'd expected.

Of course.

Unless both Bebe and Ratliff are lying, it's pretty sure that Lou Buckman knows Mark Ratliff well, and omitted him from her list. She could have forgotten, though it seems unlikely, especially if she'd slept with him. She could be ashamed of sleeping with him and omitted him in hopes it wouldn't come up. And if she had been sleeping with Dean Walker, it's reasonable that neither would mention it. But it would suggest that Lou also was restive in her marriage.

Cherchez la femme?

Susan too?

Lou being restive in her marriage doesn't mean she killed him. Why would she hire me to find out who killed him if she was the one? Why would she hire me to find out who killed him if she didn't love him enough to be faithful? My imagination shrugged. Maybe she loved him in her fashion and her fashion was different from the ones I endorsed.

Susan shook her head.

You don't cheat on someone you love?

No.

Ratliff was from L.A. Lou and Steve Buckman were from L.A. I wonder where Walker's from? Nobody's from Potshot. Except maybe somebody from the Dell. I've got plenty of time to think about it. Bebe didn't look like she was going to wake up soon, and when she does, I don't want to be in the room. Bebe is a single-minded woman.

Yes.

I drank a little more beer, carefully. In a town where I had annoyed nearly everyone, including the leader of a large gang of vicious thugs, I thought it unwise to get rolling drunk.

Maybe I should confront Lou with the allegations. What does that get me? She'll deny them and I still won't know whether they're true.

Un-huh.

And if she's conning me then I've given away that I know it and my chances of figuring out the con are reduced.

Un-huh.

So maybe pretty soon I should go to L.A. and look into these people a little. And maybe Susan should come with me.

Maybe.

And in the meantime, I got nothing else to do except sit around and see what develops. What if I went up and lay down on the bed with Bebe for awhile.

Maybe not.

Chapter 10

IT WAS Too soon to go back to my room. Bebe would still be there asleep. I wondered if she'd remember anything when she woke up. Maybe she'd think we had in fact done the deed, and would look on me fondly next time we met. I went out and sat in a straight chair on the front porch of The Jack Rabbit Inn with one foot against a post, balancing my chair on its back legs, feeling like Henry Fonda in My Darling Clementine. I was alone. A cheery male weather weenie on television had said that the temperature was 108. People in shorts and sunglasses glanced at me in puzzlement as they moved quickly in and out of air-conditioned stores. A lot of them wore big hats. The Potshot police cruiser with two of Dean Walker's four cops in it was idling in front of the hotel.

An old International Harvester Scout with no top came noisily down Main Street past me and rolled to a stop in front of the store where Lou Buckman ran her excursion business. The Preacher was sitting in the front seat next to the driver. The patrol car slipped into gear and moved away. There were two guys in the back seat of the Scout. If any of them noticed me sitting on the porch like Wyatt Earp, they didn't show it. What's the point of sitting like Wyatt Earp in 108 degree heat if no one pays any attention. When the car stopped, one of the guys in the back-a tall guy with shoulder-length hair, who looked sort of like Ichabod Crane-swung a leg over the side and jumped out as agilely as if he didn't look like Ichabod. He went into Lou Buckman's store and came out in a short time holding Lou by the arm. I let my chair fall forward and stood and walked toward them. We all reached the topless Scout at the same time.

The Preacher saw me coming and watched me, I think, through black sunglasses until I reached the car.

"Spenser," he said.

"Preacher."

"Mrs. Buckman been making contributions to the Dell," he said.

I could barely hear him. The tall guy let go of Lou Buckman and shifted his ground a little. The second rider was sitting with one foot on the console between the front seats. He was wearing motorcycle boots, and a knife was stuck in the top of the left one, which would make him left-handed. He wasn't as tall as I am, but he was wider, an obvious bodybuilder, wearing a sweaty-looking orange T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. His head was shaved. He had prison tattoos on both forearms. The driver was Mexican, clean-shaven and smooth-looking. They both appeared bored with the whole scene.

"And she's delinquent?" I said.

"Delinquent;" The Preacher said.

He did his soft little snarly laugh.

"That's what she is," he said. "She's fucking delin-quent."

"And this is small-claims court?" I said.

The Preacher looked at the men with him.

"Small-claims court," he murmured. "That's a good one, isn't it?"