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He sucked on the bump
again.
    "Their damn machine's what done it to me. Their damn machines
what cost me my livelihood." He said it fiercely, as if he expected an
argument. "I told the foreman I wasn't going to work on no machine without
the proper training. Not for no lousy two-ten an hour, I wasn't. You know
what he said to me. He said, 'You don't got no goddamn choice." Pastor
Caldwell mused on the injustice of that for a moment. "That machine 'bout
tore my hand off. And I ain't been worth a goddamn ever since. Doctor says
my nerves are shot. Can't go out. Can't do no work at all.
    "Sometimes I can still feel it there," he said, wriggling
the stump. "Like I never lost it nor my nerve neither."
    He sighed heavily. "You know what I think, mister? I hear
the preachers on the radio shouting 'Jesus, this' and 'Jesus, that' and
send us your money. And the Holy Rollers come to my door with their whole
damn family, trying to sell me a Bible. And you know what I say to them.
I say, 'It's all a pile of shit.' That's all this life is, too, when you
can't keep yourself whole but by cutting your damn hand off for two dollars
and a dime."
    But he hadn't meant that for the preachers and the Holy
Rollers. He'd meant it for me. Partly as an excuse for that catastrophic
room and the life he'd been leading in it. And partly as the reason why
he hadn't thrown me out. He'd been robbed of his job and his nerve and
now anybody who wanted to could come right in and shit all over him. There
was enough truth in what he said to make me feel disgusted with myself.
    "I'm not a cop, Mr. Caldwell," I told him. "I'm a private
detective looking for a girl named Robbie Segal."
    "Oh, Lord," he said uneasily. "Nothing's happened to that
girl, has it?"
    " Not that I know of. She's run away from home."
    "Oh, Lord," he said again. He wiped his eyes with the
back of his hand and took another drag off` his cigarette.
    "She's a good girl, that one. Come from a good home. Hell,
she'd come on over here with Bobbie and treat me like I was her own pa.
I sure hope nothing's happened to her."
    " So do I," I said softly. The room and that broken-down
man were getting to me—reminding me of another broken-down man and another
lost girl and the terrible thing that had happened to her. The memory made
me so uneasy that I stood up. Pastor Caldwell flinched, as if he thought
I might strike him.
    "Have you seen her this week?" I said. "Any time since
Sunday?"
    He closed his eyes, trying to remember. "Not since Sunday,
I don't think. 'Course Bobby's the one you should talk to. He worships
that girl. Worships the ground she walks on. But to answer your question—the
last time I saw her was on Sunday afternoon. Out in back with Bobby."
    "What were they doing?"
    "Bobby was playing her some music, I think. He's got him
a little place in the garage back there where he can play, on account of
the neighbors don't want to be bothered with the noise."
    I glanced at my watch, which was showing five-thirty.
    "What time do you figure he'll be back, Mr. Caldwell?"
    "Six o'clock. He run off to Westwood to pick him up a
valve grinder. He works on cars back in the back, too. Makes him a few
extra dollars that way. And Lord knows, we can use them."
    That helped explain the gold bracelet; I looked at the
man, who was staring idly at the TV.
    "You don't have any idea where Robbie's gone, do you,
Mr. Caldwell?"
    He shook his head and said,."You best talk to Bobby."
_
    Only Bobby didn't show up at six. Or at six-fifteen. And
that worried me. Caldwell kept smoking and watching the television. And
I started to wonder if he was stringing me along.
    "I thought you said he'd be back at six," I finally said
to him.
    "That's what I thought, too," he said placidly. "Now here
comes the CBS News and he ain't here. Somethin' must've delayed him."
    I stood up. "I'm going to go out back and wait."
    He jerked around on the chair when I got to the door and
said, "Don't you go poking through my boy's things, you