Page 34 of Backtrack

“We know Curtis Watts worked here,” Cutter said. “Start there. See what she knows. And remember to be nice.”

Johnson took a little spiral notebook from his hip pocket and then cleared his throat. “You ever heard of a guy named Curtis Watts?”

The woman raised an amused eye at Johnson, then turned to Cutter. “I assume you’re training this cute little puppy,” she said. “Shouldn’t he introduce himself first?”

Cutter tipped his hat. He would have taken it off after all his talk about treating everyone like humans, but the Show Pony seemed like the kind of establishment where he should keep both hands free.

“Cutter and Johnson,” he said. “We’re investigators with the Parker County Sheriff’s Office.”

“Cocaine” faded into the darkness and the Allman Brothers Band started singing “Every Hungry Woman.”

“Cool, cool, cool,” Gloria Blaisdell said. She plunked down her drink and took a brown cigarette from a pack of More Menthols on the bar. Cigarette parked between her lips, she held out a shiny steel Zippo to Johnson, who stood and looked at her blankly.

At length, she flicked open the lighter and laughed, looking at the girl on the stool next to hers. “Guess this ain’t the movies,Claire. I’ll light the damned thing myself.” She blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling, then picked a fleck of tobacco off her crimson lip. “Now, what was it you wanted to know?”

Johnson cleared his throat again. “Are you Gloria Blaisdell?”

“In the flesh.” Blaisdell let her robe fall open, taunting.

“Take it easy on him, ma’am,” Cutter said. “If you don’t mind.” She took a drag from her cigarette and then closed the robe. Not that it did much good.

“You were asking about Watts?”

“Yes,” Johnson said. “Curtis Watts. You know him?”

“I know a guy named Watts,” Blaisdell said. “Guys who come around here tend to keep their Christian names to themselves. You, for instance. What’s your given name?”

“Lafayette,” Johnson blurted out.

“That is one hell of an impressive name,” Blaisdell said. “In fact, that—”

Cutter cleared his throat. “I said take it easy …”

“Okay.” Blaisdell slouched on her stool, deflated. “Watts worked here for almost a year. We run a law-abiding establishment here at the Show Pony.”

“Good to know,” Cutter offered.

“What kind of work did he do?” Johnson asked.

“This and that,” Blaisdell said. “Patrons can get a little handsy once in a while. You know, like Troy was to Mitzi. Anyhow, Watts is a big-enough guy to keep that sort in line. Know what I mean?”

“When did you see him last?”

“I can’t remember exactly,” Blaisdell said. “A week or more. He came in for some cheese fries.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder at the bartender. “Jorge makes a mean batch of cheese fries.” She leaned in close to Johnson and whispered, “He uses smoked Gouda.” Then louder, “I can have him make y’all some, if you want.”

“We’re good,” Cutter said.

Blaisdell wielded the orange coal of her cigarette like a pointer, stabbing it in the air toward Johnson. “Hey,” she said. “I heard Watts got a job with an armored car company. Was he … ?”

Johnson shot a glance at Cutter, who nodded.

“He was,” Cutter said.

“Now that’s a damned shame. …”

Cutter took over the questioning. He didn’t want to spend any more time in here than he had to.

“Did you ever see Watts talking with your friend Millner?”