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Everett. A red sign with yellow letters that appeared to have been hand painted on a piece of 4 X 8 plywood was nailed to a utility pole out front. There were a couple of asphalt-stained dump trucks parked on the hot-top turnaround, and, next to the Quonset but that served as an office, a power roller was parked on a trailer. The hot-top apron was maybe four inches thick and gleamed the way new hot top does, but no one had bothered to retain it and it was crumbly and scattered along the edges.
    In the backseat Pearl growled in an entirely uncute way, and the hair along her spine went up. A black and tan pit bull terrier appeared in the door of the Quonset with his head down and stared out at the car.
    "Pearl appears to want a piece of that pit bull," Paul said.
    "That's because she's in here," I said. Paul and I got out of the car carefully so Pearl would stay put. She was stiff-legged in the backseat, growling a low serious growl. The pit bull gazed at us, his yellow eyes unblinking.
    "Nice doggie," Paul murmured.
    "I'm not sure that's going to work," I said.
    We walked toward the door. A squat man appeared in it wearing a gold tank top and blue workout pants with red trim. He had dark curly hair, worn longish, over his ears, and there was a lot of dark hair on his chest and arms. As we got close I could see that he was wearing a small gold loop in his left ear. There were two gold chains around his neck, a gold bracelet on his right wrist, a gold Rolex watch on his left one. On his feet he wore woven leather sandals.
    The pit bull growled briefly. The man bent over slightly and took hold of the loose end of the dog's choke collar.
    "He won't bother you unless I tell him," the man said.
    "Good to know," I said.
    "We're looking for Marty Martinelli," Paul said.
    "What for?" the man said. The pit bull was motionless, his expressionless yellow eyes staring at us. There was a barely audible rumble in his throat.
    The man had a forefinger hooked less firmly than I would have liked through the ring on the choke collar. On the back of his wrist, in blue script, was tattooed the name Marty.
    "We need to ask him a couple of questions about some people," Paul said.
    "I do hot top, you know. I put a nice driveway in your yard, put a nice sealer on it. Charge you a fair price. That's what I do. I don't go around answering questions about nobody. Gets you in trouble."
    "Sure," Paul said. "I understand that, but I'm looking for my mother, and your sister said you might know something."
    "My sister?"
    "Caitlin," Paul said. "She said you might be able to help us."
    The pit bull kept up his very low rumbling growl.
    "What makes you think I got a sister named Caitlin?"
    "Well," Paul said, "you've got Marty tattooed on your left wrist. I took a sort of guess based on that."
    "Smart guy," Marty said.
    "Smart enough not to tattoo his name on his arm if he doesn't want people to know it," I said.
    "Lot of guys named Marty," he said.
    Paul didn't say anything. Neither did I. The dog kept growling. Marty looked at me.
    "You a cop?"
    "Sort of," I said.
    "What the hell is sort of a cop?"
    "Private detective," I said.
    Marty shook his head. "Caitlin," he said. "The queen of the yuppies. What the fuck kind of name is that for an Italian broad, Caitlin?"
    Paul started to speak. I shook my head. We waited.
    "I don't know nothing about nobody's mother," Marty said.
    "Patty Giacomin," Paul said.
    "That your old lady?"
    "Yes."
    "Hey, that's a good paisano name."
    Paul nodded. "Her boyfriend is Rich Beaumont."
    Marty grinned. "Hey," he said. "Richie."
    "You know him?"
    "Sure. Richie's my main man."
    "We think he and my mother have gone off together," Paul said, "and we're trying to find them."
    "Hey, if she went off with Richie, she's having a good time. Why not leave them be?"
    "We just want to know that she's okay," Paul said.
    "She's with Richie, kid, she's okay. Hell, she probably…"
    "Probably what?"
    "Nothing. I forgot for a minute she's your mother,