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marijuana, and damn few hangovers. But in the two days since I had the misfortune to run into Enos Walker, it seemed I had been servicing other people’s addictions with my own shaky character: Sissy Duval’s Hooverized nose, Capt. Gannon’s lust for an easy retirement, and now Albert Homer’s hangover. Anything for justice, I thought as I crossed the unmown lot, and the faint chance that I might be able to extend Enos Walker’s wasted life. They say a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. But there is no folk wisdom covering a PI who is his own client. Perhaps because it doesn’t happen often enough to rate a cliché to cover it.
    Five minutes later, I watched Homer suck down the first can of Lone Star and crack another one. From the photographs framed on his studio wall, the rack of Frederick’s of Hollywood plus-sized lingerie, and the fake satin bedspread covering the round bed, I assumed that Homer specialized in sexy photos of fat women. It was sort of creepy, but I had to admit he wasn’t a bad photographer, and I couldn’t think of any good reason why fat women couldn’t have as much fun as emaciated models with artificial breasts.
    “I’m just guessing here,” I said as I pulled the publicity photo out of a manila envelope, “but you probably didn’t take this picture.”
    “Looks like one of my Daddy’s,” Homer said, barely glancing up from his beer. “He passed over seven years ago.”
    “You didn’t keep his files, did you?”
    “They’re in a storage locker out in Pflugerville,” he mumbled. “About the only thing besides this shithole that survived the divorce. But that fifty won’t buy you shit.”
    “What would?”
    “Maybe a hundred,” he said, smiling broadly enough to crack the gray matter at the corners of his mouth. “Make it two, if I help.”
    “That’s pretty stiff,” I suggested.
    But Homer just smiled.
    * * *
    Three hours later I understood why. We had been through another six-pack of beer and dozens of boxes of the ugliest pornography I had ever seen. The storage unit was as steamy as a sauna. The only good news was that Junior had showered and dressed in clean clothes before we drove out. The bad news was that the sleek blond was a woman named Sharon Timmons. Who had done unspeakable things with snakes when her singing career had gone south. And Amanda Rae Quarrels had no folder at all.
    “Who buys this shit?” I wondered.
    “You’d be surprised,” Homer said. “Mostly people who find the new stuff too buffed and tidy for their tastes.”
    “This is it, right? Your ex-wife didn’t take anything?”
    “Shit, man,” he moaned. “She took everything. House, both cars, and all the money my Daddy brought back from Vegas.”
    “Vegas?”
    “Yeah, he hit one of those hundred-thousand-dollar slots at the Nugget,” Junior said, “and got home with it before he blew it. First time for that.”
    “He gambled?”
    “Does the Pope wear red shoes when he shits in the woods?”
    “I don’t know, I’m not Catholic.”
    Junior just looked at me.
    “You don’t remember a woman named Mandy Rae Quarrels?” I asked.
    “Not offhand,” Homer said, shrugging. “But you know how it is. You remember the tits longer than the names.”
    “What happened to your father?” I asked, just to be polite.
    “Ah, shit,” he said, “he was fishing up at Lake Travis a couple of years ago, got drunk, and fell out of the boat.”
    Somehow I couldn’t imagine Homer’s father fishing, not after seeing the sort of pictures he liked to snap. “What happened to your marriage?” That was the only thing I could think to ask as I handed Homer the rest of his money.
    “Weight Watchers,” he said sadly.
    * * *
    On the way back to Austin, I kicked myself several times. I couldn’t believe I had let anyone as drunk and high as Sissy Duval lie to me. But clearly she had, and if I went back, I didn’t think I had enough cocaine to whip the truth out of her. Maybe I