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  “Isaac, I need to know where we’re at now, so be honest—you have sex with her?”

  The boy grinned. Dreamy. “No, no, weren’t going to do that. We started dating when she was at thee months, so we could have, I guess. But we didn’t. Not the best way to deal with the situation, you know?”

  Hopper didn’t get that at all. He’d have been all over her. She would’ve been all over him. “But there was something, right? This isn’t all PG Valentine’s Day, is it?”

  More of the dreaminess, less of a grin. Isaac shifted, trying to hide a boner. The girl must’ve been hot to inspire this. “Lot of touching, you know. I’d rub her, stick my finger inside. I shouldn’t tell you this.”

  “It might help. You never know.”

  He nodded. “She would put lotion on her hand, do me that way.”

  “No oral?”

  Isaac rolled his eyes. Unsaid: I wish. “No, she wouldn’t let me, and she didn’t do that to me. I didn’t need it myself, but I would’ve loved to…you know.”

  Hopper said, “Yeah, I do.”

  The kid’s hands covered his lap, trying to make adjustments without being obvious. Hopper wondered if letting the kid whack off during the interview might get better answers. Not what he needed, though. Did this one know where Yasmin was? Almost absolutely not. No oral, no fucking? Definitely just trying to keep Isaac around for company, help, appearances. Poor fucker. Hopper hoped he’d get wise to women. Had she not disappeared, she probably would’ve played him until she got her figure back after the birth.

  “You suck her tits?” Hopper said.

  Isaac shrugged. Hopper guessed the kid wanted to lock himself in the bathroom and stroke it. “At first. Then, you know, they got sensitive.”

  “You guys talk about marriage at all? I mean, you as a father?”

  That was the nerve. The kid let out a breath through his nose and gathered himself.

  “She was into it.”

  Hopper said, “No, I don’t think so.”

  “At first.”

  “Sure, but when you brought it up again? When she got the idea you were getting ready to propose?”

  Isaac started up from the bed but his huge erection made for trouble—it bent against the jeans. Isaac got all teary. He collapsed in a sad heap on the floor. Composed himself, rested his head on his knees.

  Hopper knelt beside him. “Look, I didn’t mean—”

  “You nailed it. I was such an idiot. I scared her away.”

  “Pretty close, but that’s not your fault. Sounds to me like you were doing the right thing, the difficult thing. No good deed goes unpunished, you know. She should’ve played fair with you.”

  Isaac was fading as a fount of info. He needed to take care of business—a sad, angry round of masturbation still served its purpose—and Hopper didn’t think he could get anything useful from him at the moment. A cop might’ve. A cop would have seen this as motive, the girl not putting out, stringing him along, so Isaac goes a little berserk for a few minutes, kills her without realizing. Hopper didn’t buy it. This guy would rather write songs about it. This guy was the opposite of his father. Isaac would rather play wounded and make her feel guilty with What about the baby? She needs a father.

  Hopper would let it sink in today and follow up later. Maybe bring the answers from the real father back and throw them in Isaac’s face, see how he responds.

  “One more thing,” Hopper said. He tried eye contact. “Does ‘Hottie Mommy’ mean anything to you?”

  Isaac shook his head, or he almost did. He looked away, didn’t say anything, then, “No.”

  “Just no?”

  “It’s what you’d call her, right? Pregnant? Cute? A ‘hottie mommy.’ But I called her Pumpkin. I told her it was a shame she wouldn’t be pregnant around Halloween, because then I could draw a jack o’ lantern on her stomach.” He smiled at that, a good memory. Hopper clapped a hand on the kid’s knee, one of those supportive Walk it off, you’ll survive things. And then he left.

  The father in the living room, still standing, said, “I hope he helped.”

  Hopper nodded, said, “Sure did.”

  Still, the father held a sad and angry expression. He knew his boy wasn’t innocent but that he was still more saint than others. How could he punish chivalry? How could he not punish lust?

  Hopper shook the man’s hand and left before he broke down.

  Too early to hit the rich kid. Hopper wanted to be sure his “message” made it in time. Too early for his dinner with the guidance counselor. Way too goddamn early to see his sister. He hoped she at least had showered by then. The last time he’d seen her, another day when the boyfriend had left for the oil rig only an hour before and she showed up at Hopper’s apartment, she was all over him immediately, yanking her skirt up, begging him to stick it in. She leaned over a straight back chair and did a little knee bend with her leg like a hooker.

  He aimed for her cunt and felt the slime as he pushed inside.

  “Colin just finished with me. I need more. Shit, I need a lot more.”

  Hopper was digusted. He was turned on. He was taking sloppy seconds from his sister. He always did, but not this obviously. Why the hell did he stay hard? Why keep going? He had something to prove, he guessed. Either that or he was addicted. Maybe he needed therapy. Hopper wanted to tell someone that women wanted to fuck him all the time and he couldn’t say no. Not even to his own sister.

  Toss that in with the image of Yasmin’s pussy-whipped stand-in boyfriend, his raging erection, and his conflicted, heartbroken preacher dad, and Hopper needed a drink. And there was only one place to get it where he felt at home.

  The Pub was on Harrison, near the Lakeshore. He knew the real name of the place, another “P” word, but shortened to the Pub because he never said it aloud much and never took anyone there. It was his “cry in your beer” joint. They had hoped to renovate, class themselves up, but the hurricane hit first. Even before the storm, the Pub always smelled like sewage mixed in with smoke from the low-rent steakhouse next door and the massive number of cigarettes smoked by Pub patrons, more than any other bar Hopper had ever entered. Perfect place to get your head straight and fucked-up all at once. The only difference now was the mold and warped wood.

  He took a stool near the door, near the video poker machine, always a chump sitting there, and Ms. Pac Man. All the stools had ripped vinyl. The bar did a weird bulge thing at Hopper’s end before straightening out as it trailed along the long, super-narrow floor, a TV in the back that only a couple of afternoon drinkers watched. A pool table, warped and mildewed and missing a nine ball. Someone had replaced it with another six, play either as either.

  The girl behind the bar was new and didn’t know Hopper’s drinks of choice. The other girl-tenders would’ve had it there soon as he hit the door—a shot of tequila and a Sprite.

  “A shot of tequila and a Sprite,” he told her.

  Her eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s you. They told me about you. I’m Georgia.” She held out her hand, chipped pink fingernail polish and a jangly charm bracelet. Hopper shook. Her skin felt lotion-soft, crazy tingles. No, please, no. She’s off-limits.

  Hard to resist, though. Cute as fuck. Dirty-blonde, kinda teased hair, thick mascara. She had to be at least twenty-one but looked seventeen and still had braces. Short girl and a short loose skirt, big chest but normal-sized overall, had a bit of a limp. Something about those eyes drew him in. They were naturally sad even when she smiled.

  Only four other patrons—poker machine loser, guy with gray beard who never said anything, and a couple of loud assholes near the back who talked sports and tried to make flirty talk with the bartender. She wasn’t interested but was sweet about it. Hopper couldn’t ignore her but tried to act bored, distracted. Georgia kept looking his way as she drew the Sprite. She brought it over, set a coaster down, and said, “Here’s the first part. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”

  His eyes moved to her legs, Georgia trying to hid
e the limp and glide a little, some hip motion. Hopper’s hands were shaking. He held them tight against each other. He always shook like a chill when he was getting aroused. Shot glass, Jose Cuervo, poured to the rim, concentrate on that instead of the beautiful baby bartender. But when she lifted the glass to bring it over, she intentionally held it high, level with her eyes. Jesus, those eyes.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Anything else?” Her T-shirt dipped low and the breasts rose, barely restrained.

  “Fine for now, thanks.”

  “You’ll let me know? Anything at all, okay? Please?”

  He cupped his fingers over her arm, gave a little squeeze. “I promise.”

  That seemed to make her happy. She forgot about disguising the limp and hurried off to wipe down the bar and check on the bearded guy. Hopper had some thinking to do.

  About the rich boy he would talk to as soon as he was done drinking, not really expecting much of it. It was the parents he was more interested in right now. If they were responsible for siccing Ernie on him, then some embarrassing secret was hiding under the surface. Scratch and it would see the light of day. Siccing Ernie on Hopper was a stupid thing to do if they had such a secret, but he could understand how sitting and doing nothing wasn’t an attractive option either.

  About the sister who was stunned by her family’s indifference in finding a lost pregnant girl, almost as if they were either too confident or gave up too easily. Or they didn’t care enough—she was a pariah anyway, a baby having a baby. Establish a ministry in her honor while shaming her, ignoring her when she was there in person with the big belly.

  About the sad boy whose goodness was a welcome mat to Yasmin for as long as she was with child, wiping her feet all over him. If all she had to do was give a few handjobs and endure some fingering, at least she had a guy who might volunteer to babysit when she got her figure back and chased more frat boys. That was a little unfair. God knows she must’ve been scared.

  Hopper downed the tequila and chased it with Sprite. He didn’t like being cynical. He was falling into the traps his mentors had set: You try to do good, but you end up on someone’s bad side every time. What we do doesn’t help folks. We only help get a little revenge, supply a little ammunition. We never give closure.

  And: Might as well get plenty of tail to help take your mind off the job. After all, this is N’awlins, baby.

  Hopper rewound the day. Fast-forwarded over his sister—more drinks needed before that visit. Yasmin’s friends were so sure they were giving him a real clue, or was that all part of the joke? Shit. Fast forward over the kiss. The fight with Ernie. Play that one in slo-mo, see if there are any hints dropped on who wanted Hopper off the case, why he assumed it was the babydaddy. The car, the suit, young slimy tough guy. Came off as charming, or tried to.

  Why wouldn’t they just send the lawyers? Much much scarier to send the lawyers.

  Started to fast forward over the talk with Isaac, getting depressed all over again thinking about that kid, when he caught something. Not something he said, but something he did.

  Georgia was back in front of him suddenly like a frame or two had been cut out of the film—just there in front of him asking, “Another shot? Anything I can do you for?”

  Hopper opened his mouth to refuse, but he liked the way she pulled her bottom lip with her teeth, subtly, over-aware.

  “Some popcorn,” he said. “That’ll be great.”

  “Is that all that’s on your mind? You look, you know, sad.”

  Hopper wished he looked dangerous, silly, stupid. Anything but sad. If she wanted to hear a story, he’d give her one.

  “Let me tell you about this girl I was looking for. It’s my job, looking for missing girls. Anyway, I talk to her friends, her mom, her ex-boyfriend, her roommate, all of them swearing it just wasn’t like her. And I’m looking for her, getting beat up, getting…” He always told her about the rape, but stopped himself. “Getting all wrapped up and tired. Trying to do good, right?”

  “What’s her name?”

  “What?”

  “The missing girl’s name?”

  “Cynthia. Nothing special about her or anything. I never even met her, actually. No, see, I found her where I least expected. She was right under everyone’s nose.”

  “Then how—”

  “Because people can’t change that completely. She still liked the movies she liked, still liked to go to the same places, and in the end the urge to go won. So she went to a movie. I saw her. I followed her home and called her folks.”

  Georgia smiled. “That’s so sweet.”

  “No, it’s not.” Hopper shook his head. “I was just doing my job. Then the girl tried to kill herself two weeks later. She didn’t want to go back home, but what choice did she have?”

  “She could’ve fought. Told them how she felt.”

  He shrugged. “Not as easy as it looks. People showing you how much they love you, then you get all guilty. So it’s a double trap. You hate them but you don’t want to see them hurt, so you try to hurt them in a way where you won’t be around to see it.”

  “She didn’t die?”

  Hopper took a sip of Sprite. “Not this time.”

  “Well, at least she’s okay.” Georgia’s lip-nibbling turned ugly, but she stopped and became pretty again, all bright eyes telling him, “Let me get your popcorn.”

  She took a quick walk to the back room to the popcorn machine, the stuff probably sitting there since last night, rewarmed when the Pub opened this morning. Hopper didn’t care. Instead, he was thinking about the other two bartenders who worked here.

  One was a skinny plain girl with brown hair she mostly pulled back, a long shaggy tail. She sent out biker chick vibes, as if those were the guys who paid more attention to her in high school, and the culture stuck. They knew these plain janes were easy lays, monsters in the sack, even more so than ugly or fat chicks. She always wore jeans, always wore thongs, the straps rising intentionally above her waistline. Lots of cut T-shirts, sleeveless and bellyless, showing off her piercing. Hopper had fucked her all over the bar—standing over a urinal, on the pool table (probably why it was so moldy), sitting at the Ms. Pac-Man machine after hours—and liked it every time.

  The other was a sorority girl. Typical shape, typical blonde hair, typical overexcited but strained voice. She wore miniskirts and flip-flops. The first time with Hopper was on the bar itself at five in the morning. Hopper had fallen off and hurt his knee, but didn’t notice until after he’d climbed back on and finished. The second time, a month of so before, they had really gone to town. She made painful sounds. He kept going until she was yelling, “No, stop, no, I can’t, get it out” and he stopped. She wanted to get away, but he held her until he pulled out, came on her thigh. He hadn’t seen her in there since then. The biker chick told Hopper the sorority girl had quit.

  He never got their names. The first one, it didn’t matter. The other, she had certainly told him, but he hadn’t paid attention. Georgia’s, though, was now burned in him like a brand. She didn’t belong here. She belonged in college, in another state, one where she would have to dress warm. She belonged in a girly bedroom with a loving family and protective daddy.

  Georgia peeked her head out from the back and shouted to Hopper, “This stuff’s going bad. I need a new batch, but I can’t reach it on the top shelf.”

  “That’s okay, then.”

  “Can you help me get it? We’ll need some for later.”

  The two sports watchers were listening in, their faces downcast, wondering why the dork got her attention and they couldn’t. Elbows on the bar, forearms protecting bottles of Rolling Rock.

  Hopper slid off the stool and started the long walk down the bar, had to pass the others to get to the leaf. He lifted it, stepped behind, lowered it into place. He caught one of the sports guys looking at him, more admiring than challenging. They were getting a good look at how fucking ripped this guy was, regardless of the glasses and
bad haircut.

  In the back room, Georgia stood with her hands on her hips, leg angled out as she waited for him. Hopper couldn’t help but notice the three-step ladder under a table that would have helped her grab the bag, only a few feet above her head. She could’ve tiptoed. Using his detective eyes, he figured it out: she had used the ladder to put the bag up there and then stashed the ladder under the table.

  He felt aroused thinking of the effort she went to, her coy little smile as she pointed and said, “It’s up here. I can’t get it, see?”

  Georgia turned to the homemade wooden shelves and pretended an attempt, lifting her hands high, the shirt sliding up, flexing her legs, tossing a glance over her shoulder, “Can you lift me?”

  “Why don’t I get the bag for you?”

  “I want to do something around here.” She did the lip thing again.

  Hopper stepped over. She was still facing him, skinwidth apart, and had to look up to see his face. She barely came up to his chest. Then she turned and lifted her hands again. “Up-sy daisy.”

  He stepped close behind her, trying to keep a respectful distance. Georgia wasn’t having it. When he was close enough to rest his hands on her sides, she brushed against him, a little down-up booty roll. A giggle.

  “Here we go, on three,” Hopper said, applying a little pressure. “One…two… three.” He lifted, her ass nearly in his face, and she grabbed the bag. She dropped it on the way down, and as her feet touched the ground, she gave way. Faking. He held her tighter, closer, and felt her hands clutch his thighs.

  “Listen, Georgia…” Hopper started, his voice a little thick.

  “I don’t want an excuse. I want you in me. I want you to love me.”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “Pretend you do for a little while.” She was whispering, sing-songy, sweet and pure. “Fuck my ass.”

  Hopper was raging dick. He glanced over his shoulder. They were out of view of the bar patrons, although he wondered if they would hear the rustling, hoped Georgia wouldn’t moan or shout much. You shouldn’t do it. Have some willpower, man!