“New owner’s a fella from Chicago named Lamar Speck,” Willis said. “Nice enough fella, I guess. You boys looking for work?”

“Might be,” Virgil said.

“No peace-officer work, I guess,” Willis said.

“I guess,” Virgil said.

As always, Virgil was looking at the room, paying no attention, seeing everything. I didn’t bother. Virgil would do it anyway, and he saw more than I did.

“Got more peace officers than you can shake a stick at,” Willis said.

“Need ’em all?” Virgil said.

Willis shrugged.

“You boys kept things pretty well buttoned up with just two of you.”

“So why so many?” I said.

Willis looked around at the near-empty bar, then leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“Might be another plan,” he said.

“What?” Virgil said.

“I’m just a bartender,” Willis said, “but…”

Virgil waited.

Willis looked around again and leaned in toward us even closer.

“Not much happens around here anymore without Chief Callico having something to do with it,” he said softly.

“Payoffs?” Virgil said.

“I’m just the bartender.”

“But you hear things,” Virgil said.

“I think Mr. Speck gives him money.”

“What happens if he don’t?” Virgil said.

“There’s trouble, police are too busy, ya know? Too busy to get here.”

“And you got nobody to keep order?” I said.

Willis shook his head.

“Was a fella named Hector Barnes,” Willis said. “Worked the lookout chair with his brother, Chico. But they quit.”

“Why?” Virgil said.

Willis shrugged.

“I think the police was bothering them about things.”

“They run ’em off?” Virgil said.

Willis shrugged.

“Ain’t here no more,” he said.

“And Speck is making his payments,” Virgil said.