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earlier that night or I would've avoided the place like the clap. My bimbo cousin was hanging around because she needed money or a place to crash – it was always the same old story – but I needed time to figure out where I was going to stay, what I was going to do myself. I had to pick up my keys. I couldn't leave just yet. She didn't see me come in, so I sat down at the bar and Vincent came over, walking kind of slow with his arthritis.
    "Well, well," he said. "Little Miss Strange."
    "Hi, Vincent." I propped my elbows on the bar, took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. I was getting this gnarly headache. "I guess I know why you called."
    "Sorry to bug you at work," he said. "I figured you'd want to come by."
    "Yeah, well, she could've picked a better night."
    "She ain't your look-out, you know."
    Vincent was a nice old guy – bald, skinny as a stick – and he wore these bifocals that made him look like a mad scientist. A friend of my father's before my parents croaked, he helped me out when he could, loaned me money, introduced me to Deacon when I got out of Juvie three years ago. Vincent used to be a long-haul trucker, but he got into a jam over light loads and ended up doing nine months for trafficking and some other crap. I missed him bad while he was gone. They wouldn't let me visit. When he got out, he spent a year mixing drinks at some dive in West Oakland before he bought the Hot Box with his cut from a warehouse robbery. He did OK with the place, more or less. The joint cleared forty or fifty grand during a good year, more than enough to keep him in Marlboros and Johnny Walker. Deacon helped him out now and then. Vincent told me they were buddies from the old days before the city got overrun by faggots and dirty hippies.
    "You cut it pretty close," he said, nodding at Steffy. "She's been hanging around all night, caging drinks and getting more squirrelly by the minute. Coked up or something. Nothing different there, except she got kicked out again by her latest manager or whatever the hell he is and I got to close in thirty minutes." He glanced at the clock. "Don't want to toss her out this time of night. Something might eat her."
    "Wonderful." Backfire on the street made me flinch. I sat up, put my glasses on, then slouched over again, checking the door, running a hand through my hair. "Can I get a beer?"
    He shook his head, watching me fidget.
    "Not out here you can't. Goddamn Liquor Control."
    "Oh, yeah." I wasn't tracking too hot. "You got any coffee left?"
    "That's just what you need," he said. "Everything OK? You look like you swallowed a bug."
    "I'm OK," I said. "Tired."
    "Where's Arn?"
    I hesitated. "He called in sick tonight."
    "Sick? What's the matter?"
    "Cold or something." I watched Steffy nursing her bottle in the corner and wished I could push a button that would make her disappear. She looked stoned and depressed; maybe she was feeling sorry for all the poor little butterflies trapped inside her head. "Thanks for calling, Vincent. I guess I'll deal with it somehow."
    "Anybody else, I'd of dumped her junky butt in the trash." He glanced over at Brown sitting at the other end of the bar, then leaned closer and lowered his voice. "You interested in a piece? I got a couple Glocks from that dealer thing in Richmond. The one last month."
    "I heard about that."
    "No, you didn't."
    "I don't know, Vincent." I couldn't concentrate. "Let me think about it."
    "Well, don't gnaw on it forever." He nodded in Brown's direction, then started to polish the counter with a rag. "Looks like somebody wants to show you some dirty pictures."
    "What?"
    "Don't get your shorts in a wad." He gave me a wink. "Brownie's workin' a big story."
    Brown staggered over and sat down on the stool next to me, propping his elbows on the bar and dragging a hand through his tangled hair. A tall, skinny geek with wire-rim glasses and bloodshot eyes, he was wearing a baggy trench coat with scuff marks and stains on the sleeves. I'd seen him