Theo was glaring at him, mouth open, when another girl came to the door. Her brown hair had highlights that needed touched up, and she was barefoot in jean shorts and a midriff top. “Yeah?”
“Jessie?” Auggie said.
“Yeah?”
“Where is that cheating motherfucker?”
She blinked. Her eyes were glassy. “Huh?”
“Cal. Where the fuck is he?”
“Listen, you can’t—”
“And don’t even think about protecting him. Did you know he was cheating on you?” Auggie thumped Theo on the chest. “He’s been pumping my bro’s girl for weeks now. Did he tell you that? Did you have any idea?”
This was when Auggie looked at Theo.
“And,” Theo said in an unnaturally deep voice, “he, uh, took my Axe body spray.”
For a moment, Auggie was speechless.
Fortunately, Jessie was already focused on something else. “What the fuck? What the fuck? That cheating motherfucker. I knew it! I knew he was doing somebody else. Where is she? I’m going to cut a bitch. Where is she?”
“He’s not here?”
“No. I haven’t seen that dickhole for almost two weeks. Who’s the girl? Who’s this bitch he’s been seeing? She’s your girlfriend?”
“You haven’t seen him for two weeks?”
“No. We did some blow a couple of weeks ago, and he didn’t even chip in. I haven’t seen him since. I knew that motherfucker was cheating. I knew it!”
Jessie turned away, heading into the apartment with jerkily fast steps.
“Any follow-up questions?” Auggie said.
“No. Is she . . .”
“She’s going to cut a bitch,” Auggie said. “Do you want to stay around for that part?”
“Not really.”
“Axe body spray?”
“Let’s play the no-talking game again.”
“Frankly,” Auggie said, “that would be a relief.”
As they backed out of the parking stall, Auggie said, “I thought maybe Saint Taffy’s next. That was another place Wayne mentioned.”
Theo shook his head. “That’s a cop bar. He might have gotten wasted there, and I’d believe he might have started a bender there if it was just booze. Someone would have to be really stupid to try to deal there. And even stupider to try to score.”
“So where?”
“Meramec Maniacs.”
“Oh, is that one of those urban chic hipster places that are popping up all over town?”
“Less commentary, please.”
“You know, like, svelte Missouri movie-star casual.”
“Just so you know, this is why nobody likes people from California.”
Auggie grinned as he followed Theo’s directions out of town. Once they were past the city limits, they followed a state highway into the darkness. The last ember of day was sinking on the horizon. Fields of crops, some still green with big red tassels, some golden-white when the headlights swept across them, were stitched together with long miles of trees or fenced pasture.
“Sorghum,” Theo said.
“Pineapple.”
Theo smiled. “Sorry. Bad habit.”
“I was just teasing. I like when you teach me things. Which one is sorghum?”
“The one with the rust-colored grains.”
“Oh. And, just in case somebody didn’t know, what’s sorghum?”
“It’s a grass. Some people eat the grain, and they also make molasses out of it. A lot of it is for animal feed, though.”
“Huh.”
“As I said, bad habit. I’ll be quiet.”
“Does your family grow sorghum?”
Theo glanced sideways at him. “Actually, they do. There’s been a huge demand for it lately. China is buying a lot of it. Dad and Jacob switched most of the fields over to sorghum last year. They made a killing. Well, relatively speaking. It’s not quite movie-star money.”
They drove another mile, the headlights carving out parts of the world: a glint of animal eyes, the highway’s weedy shoulder, an irrigation pipe, a branch hanging out over the asphalt.
“I don’t care about that stuff, you know.”
“What?”
“I mean, I’m not a snob.”
“I know.”
“I just—it’s just different from where I grew up.”
“I know.”
Auggie tried to think of the right way to say what he wanted to say, but they all sounded the same, and they all jumbled together, so he just drove the rest of the way in silence.
Meramec Maniacs was a long, low frame building that had obviously been built in stages and, Auggie guessed, with whatever was cheapest or easily available. In some places, corrugated sheet metal served as siding; in others, strips of what Auggie thought might be tin; plywood, boards, and a few scabs of vinyl siding covered the rest of the structure. Light seeped through a thousand cracks, and when Auggie turned off the Malibu, the twang of rockabilly music filled the car.
“Please wait here,” Theo said as he unbuckled himself.
“No.”
“Auggie, please. I said it nicely. This place is . . . rough.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“I don’t think you’re a kid.”
“Yes, you do. You think I’m this naïve, spoiled California kid, and you think I can’t take care of myself.”
Theo released the seat belt, which retracted with a soft whir, and then he pushed his hair behind his ears. “Where’s this coming from?”
“I can handle myself.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Auggie set his jaw.
“I’ll be back in five minutes. Ten, tops. Any longer than that, and I want you to call the sheriff.”
“What?”
“Kidding,” Theo said with a small smile. “Please stay here. I promise I’ll be fast.”
The door clicked shut, and then Theo was just a dark shape moving in front of the pinpricks of light leaking out of the bar. Auggie drummed his thumbs on the wheel. Then he unbuckled himself and went inside.
The music hit him like a wall, guitar and banjo and drums, a man belting out something about his dog and his truck. Inside, the bar was darker than Auggie had expected, with exposed bulbs hanging at distant intervals. The floor had been chopped up with shoulder-high walls, creating a maze of nooks and crannies where tables and booths were nestled. Men and women filled most of the available space, and Auggie had to turn sideways to squeeze through the crowd. His borrowed sneakers scuffed through sawdust, and every breath brought the stink of sweat, bodies, and beer.
He made his way to the bar and found an opening at the end. When the bartender looked over, Auggie waved once, and the guy—young, with a flattop and a Harley Davidson t-shirt—nodded before moving to fill two pints at the tap. Auggie used the time to study the crowd. Rough was a pretty good description. Big guys with beards and leather vests, hard-looking women in tank tops and booty shorts.