They said that women would go out with Rattler-it was hard to imagine they went willingly-and then they’d be found wandering back into town in the early hours of the morning, sometimes barefoot, sometimes nearly naked, always unwilling or unable to talk about what had happened. None of them ever wanted to press charges, but those women were never the same again.

“My, you’re looking fine today,” Dun said, raising a bottle in my direction before taking a long drink. Gram had a policy that anything a customer drank or smoked in the house was free-for the price of a few beers and some weed, she kept them entertained and happy, and if she tacked on a premium for the harder stuff, they never complained.

“I got to git down to the basement,” Gram said, sighing and fixing a look on me. I knew what she wanted-for me to go down and get whatever it was that Dun was buying tonight. But that was the one thing she couldn’t make me do: I refused to get involved with her dealing. I wouldn’t touch the pill bottles, wouldn’t read the labels, wouldn’t help her sort and bag the weed she got from a guy who drove it up from the Ozarks once a month. I wouldn’t do any of it, and whenever she asked I reminded her that all I had to do was make one phone call and she was done.

Of course, I was bluffing. I would never do anything to bring the authorities in, because that would mean that Chub and I would be split up. Gram was stupid about some things, and this most of all: she should have known what Chub meant to me.

Instead, she got up, sighing and snorting, and shuffled off to the basement stairs. It would take her a while, holding on to the handrail and taking the steps one at a time, before she was back with their stuff. I saw the pile of wadded cash in the middle of the table. It would stay there until Dun checked his purchases and slid them in his pockets, and then Gram would stuff the money into her purse on the counter. That was how it was always done.