“She ran away with a vacuum cleaner man during the war.”

“Which war?”

“I forget. You know, it’s slow season and I got lots of empty rooms upstairs. Want to go up?”

“Not tonight. One of these days.”

“Shit. I don’t think you’re ever gonna come across.”

“It’ll happen, Wilma. You can’t rush love.”

She liked that. She laughed about it. Her chins especially.

“Who’s that guy out there, Wilma?”

“Who?”

I rubbed the frost off the window.

“The guy getting in his car,” I said “The guy getting in the Chevy. Ever seen him before, or is he just a tourist?”

“I seen him. Funny you should ask.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s got a room with me. Had it a week, now.”

“So?”

“I think he banged my niece last night. I don’t like that. She might’ve, but I don’t. She’s just sixteen and that fucker’s forty.”

“You want me to have a talk with him?”

“I could have Charley do that.”

Charley was her bartender, a tough old bird in his early sixties.

“Let me,” I said.

“You really want to?”

“I’d like to.”

“Okay. He’s in room twelve. But he’s probably gone for the evening. He’s gone most evenings till midnight.”

“I’ll just wait in his room and surprise him.”

“You sure…”

“Sure.”

“Okay, then. There’s a master key on my office wall, on a nail.”

I rubbed the window glass once again. Turner and his Chevy were gone.

I got up.

2

The last time I saw Turner was five years ago, and he was on the floor, where I put him, and he was telling me he’d fix me someday.

Childish, the way he put it really: “I’ll fix you, fucker. I’ll fix you.”

And an hour or so earlier, we’d murdered a man. Or rather I had, with Turner giving me support, supposedly.