But Marvin left after the first shift.”

“So?”

“Ten minutes to closing time, some guy vomited three feet from me, and I couldn’t get the smell out of my hair. I stood guard while Cameron showered, then she stood guard for me.”

He thinks about that, then lifts her chin up to put more light on her face.

“What happened here?”

He touches her cheek where Chris Fowler slapped her an hour ago.

“Is it still swollen?” she says.

He starts to puff up like when he’s about to punch out some poor schlub at Shady’s. “Who hit you?” he says.

“Cameron.”

“What?”

“When the drunk puked, I jumped and turned away and Cameron smacked me by mistake.”

He frowns.

“Tell me the truth. Did someone hit you?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I already told you.”

“Cameron.”

“That’s right. You’ve seen her dance. She throws her arms all over the place. I ran into one of them.”

Bobby laughs.

Willow says, “Glad you think it’s funny.”

“You hit her back?”

“Of course not.”

“Why?”

“It was an accident.”

“I’d have smacked her anyway.”

“Of course you would. Can I go to bed now?”

He stares at her cheek a while longer, then says, “How much did you make?”

“Nine-sixty.”

“No shit? That’s a world record!”

“Trust me, I earned every cent.”

He smiles a gappy, brown-toothed smile that makes her cringe.

“Nine hundred and sixty dollars?”

“That’s right.”

He rubs his fingers together. “Like they say in the movies—”

She looks at him blankly.

He rubs his fingers some more. Then says, “Show me the money.”

“I’ll have to show you tomorrow.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m getting it first thing in the morning.”

“The fuck’re you talking about?”

“They rang out the shift while I was in the shower.”

“You let them take your money?”

She sighs. “You act like it’s never happened before. I’ve got a receipt.”

Bobby puts his hand out. “Cough it up.”

Willow shows him a piece of paper that explains she earned twelve hundred ten, minus her stage fee of two-fifty, for a net of nine-sixty.

“I can’t believe you have to pay those bastards two hundred and fifty bucks to work for tips.”

“It’s been like that since I started.”

He squints. “Whose signature is that?”

“Gary’s.”

“Where’d he learn to write?”

She shrugs. “Kindergarten?”

He laughs. “What time tomorrow?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll have it long before you wake up.”

“Make sure you do.”

“Can I go to bed now?” she says.

He gives her a long, hard look, but stands aside to let her pass.

“Nice ass,” he says, as she enters the room.

7.

 

Willow and Cameron.
Friday, 8:30 a.m.

“MAYBE HE’S SKIPPING work today,” Cameron says, between yawns.

“It’s Friday. He’s going to work.”

“It’s eight-thirty, Willow.”

“So?”

“We got here at six-fifteen, right?”

Willow pauses a minute, then says, “You’re right. I’m going in.”

She climbs out of the car, crosses two well-manicured yards, walks up to Chris Fowler’s front door, and rings the doorbell.

Waits a few seconds, rings it again.

And again.

She moves to the living room window, puts her hands on either side of her face to block the glare, and peers inside.

Nothing.

She rounds the house and looks through the sliding glass door of the den.

Nothing.

She goes to the backside of the garage, peeks through the window, and sees the same burgundy Escalade she saw last night when Chris pulled up and opened the garage door. But Chris’s black Mercedes sedan is missing.

Assuming his name is Chris.

Could he have used a fake name?

Willow walks back through the front yard, opens the mailbox, and removes a thick stack of bills and magazines. She riffles through them. The bills were sent to Christopher Fowler. Most of the magazines, to Kathy Fowler.

Willow walks back to her car and tells Cameron they’ve lost Chris.