'I'll be careful,' I said.
We sat for a while longer in silence.
'The family is peculiar,' I said.
'And the horse shooting is peculiar,' Becker said.
'What does this suggest?' I said.
'Can't imagine,' Becker said.
FIFTEEN
THE BATHHOUSE Bar and Grill had a Bud Light sign in its front window with a neon tube image of Spuds McKenzie looking raffish and thirsty. The room was air-conditioned. There was a bar the length of the room across the back. There were tables in front of the bar. Along the right wall there was a small dance floor, with a raised platform for live performances. At the moment the music, Bette Midler singing something I didn't recognize, was from a big old-fashioned Wurlitzer jukebox next to the door. Behind the bar was a chalkboard with the night's by- the-glass wine selections, and a list of bar food specials. In the late afternoon, the bar was about half occupied and there were people at several of the tables. It was like any other place where people went to avoid being alone, except that all the customers were men.
The bartender had a crew cut and a mustache and a tan. He was wearing a dark green polo shirt and chino pants. I ordered a draft beer.
'Tedy around?' I said.
'Tedy?'
'Tedy Sapp,' I said.
'Table over there.' The bartender nodded. 'With the muscles.'
Tedy was wearing the Bath House uniform-green polo shirt, chino pants, and a tan. His hair was colored the aggressively artificial blond color that musicians and ballplayers were affecting that year. It was cut very short. He was a flagrant bodybuilder. About my size, and probably about my weight. He was chiseled and cut and buffed like a piece of statuary. I picked up my beer.
'That'll be three and a quarter,' the bartender said.
I put a five on the bar and carried my beer over to Tedy's table. He looked up, moving his eyes without moving his head. He had the easy manner of someone who was confident that he could knock you on your ass. He had a cup of coffee in front of him on the table, and a copy of the Atlanta Constitution was folded next to it.
'My name's Spenser,' I said. 'Dalton Becker mentioned you to me.'
'Becker's a good guy,' Sapp said.
His voice carried a whisper of hoarseness. He gestured at an empty chair, and I sat down.
'You used to work for Becker,' I said.
'Used to work for Becker,' he said. 'Deputy sheriff. 'Fore that I was in the Army-airborne. Lifted weights. Karate. Married. Trying as hard as I could to be straight.'
'And you weren't,' I said.
'Nope. Wasn't, am not now. Doesn't look like I'm gonna be.'
'And now you're not trying,' I said.
'Nope. Got divorced, quit the cops.'
'Becker fire you when you came out?'
'Nope. I coulda stayed on. I wanted to quit.'
'Still pumping a little iron, though,' I said.
'That works gay or straight,' Sapp said.
'And now you're here?'
'Yep. Four to midnight six days a week.'
'Hard work?' I said.
'No. Now and then a couple queens get into a hissy-fit fight, scratching and kicking, and I have to settle them down. But mostly I'm here so that a few good old boys won't get drunk and come in here to bash some fairies.'
'That happen very often?' I said.
'Not as often as it used to,' Sapp said.
'Because you're here.'
'Yep.'
'Most people don't anticipate a tough fairy,' I said.
Sapp grinned. 'You look like you might have swapped a couple punches in your life.'
'You ever lose?' I said.
'What? A fight? In here? Naw.'
