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should turn my license in, go back to being a retired gentleman as Betty suggested. But that seemed too easy. I called Carver D on the cell phone, but nobody answered, so I stopped by his unlocked, rambling house in Travis Heights before I headed back out to relieve the daytime bartender. Diabetes and liberal doses of Tennessee whiskey had limited Carver D’s mobility. He was alone, which was unusual, in an antique wheelchair on the screened back porch. Petey, my silent partner in the washing of my bad cash, usually took care of Carver D when he wasn’t pursuing his degree in computer science and accounting at UT. When he was in class, Carver D’s driver, a tough ex-marine master sergeant named Hangas, took over the chores.
    “Where the hell is everybody?” I asked.
    “They’ve abandoned me, Milo,” Carver D said, then tipped the bottle. Then he laughed, his rolling fat jiggling like a bad Jell-O salad, his tiny black eyes shining like watermelon seeds. “Petey ran to the store,” he said, still choking with laughter. “Although Quarrels is not an uncommon name in this part of the world, I can promise you that your Amanda Rae Quarrels doesn’t exist as any sort of person, singer, songwriter, or actress. No record of birth, marriage, death, taxes, telephone, or utilities. Nothing under that name. Enos Walker, on the other hand, his life is an open book. Born December 7th, 1960, in Hominy, Oklahoma. His mother was a registered member of the Osage tribe; his father a staff sergeant at Fort Sill who shows up on various records as either black, white, or Seminole and who was listed MIA in Vietnam, presumed dead. Walker’s criminal record is longer than my dick, but mostly minor stuff — misdemeanor possession, disturbing the peace in bar fights — that sort of shit. Lots of rumors but no official interest in his dealing down here. Until that last bust. Smuggling cocaine. Got popped with two other guys outside of Tulsa. A sweet setup but they had some bad luck.”
    “Bad luck?”
    “The private plane would file a flight plan out of Jamaica to Tulsa,” he said, “and when they dropped down for the airport approach — Christ, who’d suspect Tulsa — they’d kick the coke out into a pasture. Great pilot, too. Hit the fucking mark. Dropped twenty keys wrapped inside an inflated tractor tire tube right on the pickup’s hood. Fucking near killed them. Did kill the pickup and the driver. Made it hard to run away when the cops showed up.”
    “What happened to the two other guys?”
    “Both died in the joint. One killed with a shovel,” he said, “the other died of AIDS. Bad luck all around. Except for Walker. There was a rumor that somebody dropped a dime on him and some strong but inadmissible evidence that this wasn’t the first time they had pulled this number. He was lucky to only do state time and only twelve years at that. Hell, it took five years to finally convict and sentence him. And it was another piece of bad luck when he jumped bail and got swept up in a random check at the Miami Airport. He was not exactly a model prisoner, but still he managed to stay out of serious trouble.”
    “No probation officer, huh?”
    “Nope. Walker did the full jolt,” Carver D said. “For the moment, he’s a free man. Until they catch him again. Or perhaps you make the collar.”
    “It feels a little bit like a lost cause. I just don’t know enough criminals down here,” I complained.
    “Hell, this is Texas, man, you don’t know nothin’ but criminals down here,” Carver D said. “All great fortunes start with a small crime.”
    “Who said that?” I said.
    “As far as you know, buddy, I did.”
    “Maybe I’ll just have to take the heat.”
    “Well, you got a good lawyer in Phil Thursby,” Carver D said, “and don’t forget that your girlfriend’s uncle is the Gov.” Then he laughed so hard his tiny dark eyes disappeared. “You can surely pick ‘em, partner.”
    “Guess I’d better handle