Good Day In Hell. J.D. Rhoades

be here,” he said as he turned toward the people standing by.

      Marie located the restroom around the side of the building. She grimaced as she looked around at the grimy tile and cracked fixtures. As she reached for the faucet, she noticed a drop of blood on the edge of the sink. She stopped short, her hand a few inches away from the faucet. She looked around. There was another drop of blood, almost too small to notice unless you were looking for it, on the floor. She looked over at the toilet stall, a feeling of dread twisting her stomach. Another body in there? she wondered. Slowly, she pushed the door open. The stall was empty.

      Marie breathed out. She had not realized till then that she had been holding her breath. Then the paper towels sticking out of the trash can caught her eye. She walked over and looked down. There was blood there, too, ragged stains soaked into the rough flimsy paper.

      Marie’s head snapped up as a scream came from outside. She slammed the door open with one hand and drew her weapon with the other. She skidded to a stop at the comer of the building as another scream split the air. It sounded like a woman.

      Marie held the 9MM Beretta in a two-handed grip, her elbows slightly bent to take the recoil. Then she stepped out, planting her feet shoulder-width apart, her eyes hunting for targets.

      Bells hanging on the front door jingled as Keller walked into the small diner. A plump waitress with badly dyed red hair looked up from pouring coffee for a table of men in paint-spattered overalls. “Sit anywhere you want, hon,” she called out. “Be with you in just a sec.”

      This time of day, with breakfast long over and the lunch crowd petering out, the place was mostly empty. A few older men sat on stools at the counter, nursing coffees or glasses of iced tea, newspapers propped up before them or spread on the counter. The rich smells of coffee, eggs, and bacon still hung in the air. Keller slid into a booth. The red-haired waitress came over, the coffeepot still in her hand. The table was already fully set, and Keller turned the inverted coffee cup upright.

      The waitress filled it and handed him a laminated plastic menu. “Thanks,” he said, “but I’ll just have the coffee.”

      “Okay, shug, take your time,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. As she started to turn away, Keller said, “You got a minute?”

      She turned back, a look of mild surprise on her ruddy, kind face. “Can I hep you?” she asked.

      “I’m trying to find Laurel Marks. Anyone know—”

      The face shut down, all of the friendliness suddenly evaporated. “She don’t work here no more.”

      “I know,” Keller said. “I was wondering if—”

      “I’ll get the manager,” the waitress said. She walked off, slowly, as if her feet hurt.

      After a few moments, a man in cook’s white pants and a sweat-stained T-shirt came out. He was in his late thirties, but hard work and harder partying had already carved deep lines in his face and under his eyes. His scraggly hair poked out at odd angles from beneath his flat round paper cap. A bushy cavalryman’s moustache almost, but not quite, hid his badly crooked teeth when he spoke.

      “You lookin’ for Laurel?” he said. His voice was a raspy croak, his eyes narrow and suspicious.

      “Yeah,” Keller said. “I work for her bondsman. She skipped bail on us.”

      The eyes grew less wary. “You tryin’ to put her in jail, huh?”

      “That’s right.”

      The manager leaned back and smiled. “Well shit, somebody sure’s hell ought to. Jesus, that bitch was flat crazy.” He extended a hand covered with healed burns and old scars from kitchen mishaps. “I’m Bart,” he said. He didn’t offer a last name.

      Keller shook his hand. “Jack,” he said.

      Bart leaned back and took off his cap. He ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. He produced a cigarette and lit it. “You got a card, Jack?” he said. “I mean, it ain’t like I don’t trust people, but…” He left the sentence hanging.

      Keller handed him a card. Bart studied it through the haze of his cigarette smoke. “H & H Bonds. Yeah, I used them a time or two.” He pocketed the card. “Actually, Alicia’s the one you ought to ask about Laurel,” he said. He looked around.

      “’LICIA!” he bellowed suddenly. The men at the counter looked up. The painters at the nearby booth stopped talking. “‘LICIA!” Bart yelled again.

      A rail-thin blonde girl in the same uniform as the other waitress came out the back, wiping her hands on a rag. “What is it, Bart?” she whined. “I got side work to finish …” She stopped as she caught sight of Keller. She smiled at him and walked over to stand beside Bart. “Who’s your friend, Bart?” she asked. She tried to make it sound flirtatious, but the nasal quality of her voice spoiled the effect.

      “Jack here works for Laurel’s bail bondsman. She skipped bail and he’s lookin’ for her.”

      “That bitch!” Alicia said. Her voice went up an octave and the word came out as two syllables: bee-yitch. “Look what she did to my arm!” She pulled the polyester sleeve of her uniform up almost to one bony shoulder. All Keller could see was the bandage that ran from her shoulder down to her bicep. “She coulda kilt me!” Alicia said dramatically. She looked around to where the men at the counter were still staring. “She coulda kilt me!” she announced again to the room.

      Bart slid out of the booth. Alicia took his place. “Don’t take too long,” he growled at Alicia. “I ain’t payin’ you to talk.” He didn’t wait for an answer before walking off.

      “Fuck you, Bart,” Alicia said, too softly for him to hear. She smiled at Keller again. She twirled a lock of her thin blonde hair around her index finger. “So,” she said, “Crazy Laurel skipped out on you” Her voice was light and teasing.

      Keller nodded. “Yeah. Thought I’d check and see if anyone knew where she might hang out. Or where she lived, stuff like that.”

      Alicia’s eyes brightened. “Whatcha gonna do when you catch her? You gonna cuff her?”

      “Probably. Most people don’t really want to come with me.”

      She leaned forward. “You bring your cuffs with you? Can I see ‘em?”

      “They’re in the car.”

      “Maybe you can show ‘em to me later,” she said. Keller grinned. “You always ask guys you just met to show you their handcuffs?”

      She grinned back. “If they’re cute enough,” she said.

      “You could get in trouble that way,” he replied.

      “Honey,” she said, with all the clueless bravado a twenty-year-old can summon, “I love trouble.” She punched him lightly on the forearm, then leaned back. “I’m just playin’,” she said.

      It was an old game, invitation and withdrawal. Keller played along. To keep her talking, he told himself.

      “I know,” he said.

      “I don’t know all that much about Laurel, tell you the truth,” Alicia went on. “She came in, always acted like she was pissed off at somethin’. Most of us just steered clear of her.”

      “Why’d she cut you?” Keller asked.

      She grimaced. “I made some stupid joke about that creepy boyfriend of hers.”

      “Boyfriend?”

      “Yeah,” she folded her arms across her chest, as if the memory made her cold. “He was good-looking, I mean, for an older guy, but he was old enough to be her father. And he was … I don’t know, there was somethin’ not right about him.”

      “Was she staying with him?”

      Alicia