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the photo credit on the back of Mandy’s picture, so once again I begged off the late night drive out to the ranch. “I’ve got one more lead to follow in the morning.”
    “I wish you could hear how silly that sounds,” she said, suddenly flushed with anger, her lower lip trembling. “Why don’t you just admit you hate this place and carry your sorry ass back to Montana?”
    “Thanks,” I said. “Since I moved my sorry ass down here to be near you.”
    “That’s too much responsibility for me to bear,” she said, then left her coffee, and walked slowly out of the bar. The sad stiff stick of her back told me that once again conversation had failed us. We had moved farther away from each other with each word. Just as we had down at her uncle’s beach house.
    We had drifted into a fight that night, as effortlessly it seemed as we had drifted into bed when we were first together. After the usual silence, then the apologies, I had begun to rub her shoulders.
    “I just don’t know…” she murmured as we started to make love.
    “What? What don’t you know?”
    “I don’t know what we’re doing anymore,” she said softly, her voice barely audible above the sounds of the Gulf breeze and the soft slaps of the waves. “I don’t know where this is going, don’t even know if we’re making love or just fucking… or if this is some sort of stupid contest to see who can come last…”
    I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything, just eased out of her and into my sweats, then out of the house, across the glass-enclosed upper deck, then the long, shallow ramp down to the hard-packed sand of the beach. As I walked along the dark verge of the water, the low waves slipped across the sand, dying with a foaming hiss that sounded like a nest of baby snakes. Out in the Gulf, the lights of the oil platforms and derricks glowed like the false fires of ship wreckers, and the oily tar balls glistened in the scummy surf like the eggs of monsters. Texas, Jesus. What had been in my mind?
    When I went back to her uncle’s beach house, perched like a giant spider on concrete legs above the sand, she seemed to be asleep, so I crashed on a lounge chair on the upper deck out of the wind. The next morning we drove back to Austin without speaking.
    After Betty left the bar, I was more than glad to listen to the aimless problems of my customers. I could think of possible solutions to their problems, solutions that were sometimes as simple as a free drink and a friendly ear. So it wasn’t until after I had cleaned up, stocked, washed some illegal cash, and- checked out that I had a chance to see if Albert Homer was still at the same place. There he was in the Austin telephone book, still on North Loop, and still in business.
    * * *
    Homer’s studio sat on a weedy lot behind a ratty pool hall off North Loop within shouting distance of 1-35 North. He might still be in business, but business didn’t look all that lively at noon the next day when I pushed the buzzer beside the front door. Four long separate times. Finally, I heard a door slam and a distant voice from the second floor promising that it was on its way. Darkroom, I assumed, until the young man opened the door wearing a ratty robe over rumpled pajamas. He’d seen better days himself. The long fringe of hair hanging around his thin face hadn’t been washed or combed in several days. Something gray clung to the corners of his scraggly mustache, much as the odor of the early morning joint clung to his night clothes, and the stink of stale beer wafted on his breath.
    “We ain’t open,” he mumbled. I showed him a fifty-dollar bill, remembering the good old days when a twenty would have done the trick. “But we could be, man, if you had a cold six-pack, too.”
    “Don’t go away,” I said, then headed for the glowing beer signs of a pool hall just down the street.
    During the years I had lived in Texas, I’d had almost no cocaine, not many tokes of