especially for Artie. Lucky days like this were a long time apart in his life.
'Well, the course of true love never runs smooth,' I said. 'Fate's bound to test it, and we're just the delivery boys.'
Madbird nodded and let the door have it, a half-dozen blows that sounded like he was using a sledge. We waited. Nothing happened. He pounded again, and I stepped to a window and gave it a sharp tattoo with my knuckles.
'Drop your cock and grab your socks, Artie,' Madbird yelled.
The curtain of my window twitched, and I thought I glimpsed an eyeball peering out before it fell back into place.
That left us without much in the way of options. Forcing our way in would have necessitated damage. They'd have to come out eventually, but as long as they had beer, that could be a while.
'How long you figure those two cases will last them?' I said. 'Long enough to fuck up our day. But that just gave me a idea, if we can get in there.'
I studied the cabin's exterior for possible points to breach. After a minute, it struck me that the door opened outward, with the hinges exposed; the pins could be removed from the outside. Security hinges to prevent that were available, but around here, back when this place had been built, nobody would have dreamed of such a need.
'Be right back,' I said, and went to my truck for a hammer and nail set. It took us about thirty seconds to knock out the hinge pins and set the door aside.
Elly May was sitting up in bed in the classic pose of a woman caught in flagrante delicto, with the sheets clutched to her ample bosom. But instead of seeming scared or outraged, she looked interested.
'Wow, I didn't know you could do that,' she said.
Artie was backed up against the far wall, wearing a fluffy pink bathrobe too big for him; it must have been hers. He looked so doleful that my ire evaporated. Madbird kept a stern face, but I could see that he was working at it.
'I hate to tell you this, Artie, but that ain't exactly your color,' he said.
'You got no right to come busting in here,' Artie quavered.
'Where are they?'
Sudden innocence crossed Artie's face. 'Where are what?'
Madbird shook his head in exasperation and walked through the cabin to the kitchenette at the back. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out four six-packs of Schmidt beer and a few singles. Then he popped a top and upended the can over the sink, emptying out a frothing amber stream.
Artie stared at him in shock, then rushed to the kitchenette doorway.
'What the fuck are you doing?' he yelled.
'Party's over,' Madbird said. He tossed the can aside and opened another one.
Artie turned agitatedly to Elly May. 'Make him stop.'
'You make him stop.'
'This is your place.'
That impelled her to get out of bed, wrapping a sheet not very effectually around herself.
'At least leave us a couple to get started on,' she said pleadingly.
Madbird shook his head. 'Sorry. This is a take-no-prisoners mission.'
I glanced outside and saw that Pam was walking across the parking lot toward us. There was something ethereal about the sight, like a '60s album cover with a pretty hippie chick drifting across a symbolically stark landscape.
When Pam arrived, she paused to gaze at the displaced door. 'Don't worry, we'll put it back,' I said. 'What's going on?'
'Artie's playing hard to get. Would you try talking to him? We just want to know what he did with our tools.'
She stepped inside and paused again, this time at the sight of Artie in his flamboyant pink bathrobe, the Junoesque, bed-sheet-draped figure of Elly May, and Madbird calmly emptying beer down the drain.
'Artie, why don't you just tell these guys,' she said.
'I don't know what you're talking about, man. Make them leave our beer alone and get out of here.'
Pam folded her arms and glared like a scolding mother.
'Honest to God, you are so hopeless. We know you blew a wad of cash at the bar last night. Do you think we're that dumb?'
I could just about see Artie calculating through his half-drunk, half-hungover state whether it was worth trying to keep up the bluff. Finally, he lowered his head in remorse.
'I only hocked them,' he said. 'You guys weren't around yesterday, I thought you'd be gone a while longer, and I got a deal set up to sell some car parts. Then I was going to buy them back.'
Right.
'Where?' Madbird said again.
'Bill's Bail Bonds.'
I turned away, shaking my head. Wouldn't you fucking know it.
We rehung the door on its hinges and headed for my truck. But when we got there, Madbird kept on walking toward the restaurant.
'Hang on a minute, huh?' he said. 'I better find out what's going on with Darcy.'
That didn't take long; it seemed like he'd hardly gone inside before he came back out again. His face had an expression I only saw occasionally. It told me he was unhappy, but satisfied that things had turned out as they should.
'Fraker pulled the pin on her,' Madbird said. 'Told her he couldn't afford to have crazy motherfuckers like me lurking around. That was the way he said it-'lurking.''
'Well, that's got to be tough for her, but I know you're not sorry to hear it.'
'Things only would of got worse. But it's all my fault, of course.'
'I guess she has to blame somebody.'
He nodded curtly. 'Hannah will start working on her and smooth her out.'
'You're probably going to need help moving that couch back out of her apartment.'
I was glad to see him grin.
'I think the two of us can handle it this time,' he said.
25
Bill Latray, proprietor of Bill's Bail Bonds (Got Jail Trouble? Help on the Double! Call 445-BILL), also operated a pawnshop out of the same storefront-a convenient accomodation for clients who couldn't raise the cash for a bond, but could lay hands on something valuable. Bill would acquire items for a fraction of their worth-nominally, he took them in hock, but very few were ever reclaimed-and resell them at a tidy profit. He was known for never asking where the merchandise came from. By his lights, that wasn't his concern.
Guns, jewelry, guns, musical instruments, and guns were his top moneymakers. But power tools in good condition were also welcome, and ours were on display when Madbird and I arrived at his shop. They weren't supposed to be on sale for the duration of the pawn ticket, another twenty-nine days, but Bill was also known for being flexible about that sort of thing. At least we'd gotten there before somebody beat us to it.
Bill was tending the glassed-in counter, where he kept pistols, rings, and other expensive items that might be easily pocketed. A rack of rifles and shotguns lined the wall behind him. At the room's far end, there was a small office where he ran his bail business. The rest of the space was filled with tables of used merchandise. Everything reeked with the smoke of the rum-soaked Crook cigars he favored and his brand of cologne, which would have broken up a riot faster than tear gas.
'How's it going?' he said, lumbering over to give us hearty handshakes. He was mostly Indian, built like an oil barrel on a pair of tree trunks, with a scarred, pitted face and a stare that made you want to shrivel down into your
