“Come into a little money, sort of unofficial like,” Cates said. “Bought this place when it was a rattrap. Hundreds of ’em. Got a couple big mean tomcats, fixed it up a little, and things are starting to build.”

“Nothing like a tomcat,” I said.

“Coyotes got one of ’em, but the other one’s still working here,” Cates said.

“Feed him?”

“Nope. He stays nice and fat on his own.”

“Good thing,” I said.

“Self-supporting,” Cates said.

Cates poured himself a little more whiskey and looked at it in the glass. The room was thick with smoke, and noise, and the smell of whiskey.

“You still looking for that girl?” Cates said.

“Yep.”

“Don’t know if it’s the right one, but there’s a girl named Frenchie, works out of a saloon in the river end of town. Used to sing and play the piano some, they tell me. But she was pretty bad, so she mostly now just works on her back, if I can say that to you.”

“You can,” I said. “Won’t do anybody any good to say it to Virgil, though.”

There were some cards being played along the left wall of the saloon, and the whores clustered at the back, foraying out now and then for a prospect, taking him out through a door in the back of the room. They were generally not gone for long.

“No,” Cates said. “I figured it wouldn’t. Why I’m talking to you.”

“What’s the saloon?” I said.

“Barbary Coast Café,” Cates said.

I smiled.

“Do get some names round here,” Cates said. “Don’t we.”

“As grand as it sounds?” I said.

“No,” Cates said.

We both looked at Virgil sitting motionless in the high chair, looking at nothing, seeing everything.

“Don’t use a shotgun,” Cates said.

“Mostly no,” I said.

“Guess he don’t need one,” Cates said.

“Virgil don’t need much,” I said.