The name of JoLayne’s friend was Moffitt, and he made no inquiries about the crackheads or the yowling robber. Moffitt was built like a middleweight and dressed like an expensive lawyer. His gray suit was finely tailored and his checkered necktie was silk. He wore thin-rimmed eyeglasses with round conservative frames, and carried a small cellular telephone. He greeted JoLayne with a hug but scarcely nodded at Tom Krome.
The bartender brought Moffitt a Diet Coke and a bowl of pitted olives. He popped one in his mouth and asked JoLayne to remove her sunglasses.
After examining her face, he turned to Krome: “She gave me one version over the phone, but I want to hear yours—did you do this to her?”
“No.”
“Because if I find out otherwise, you’re going on an ambulance ride—”
“I didn’t do it.”
“—possibly in a bag.”
JoLayne said, “Moffitt, it wasn’t him.”
They moved to a booth. Moffitt asked for a card, and Krome got one from his billfold. Moffitt remarked that he’d never heard of The Register. JoLayne told him to lighten up.
Moffitt said, “Sorry. I don’t trust anyone in the media.”
“Well, I’m stunned,” said Krome. “We’re so accustomed to being adored and admired.”
Moffitt didn’t crack a smile. To JoLayne he said: “What’s your plan, Jo? What do you need from me?”
“Help. And don’t tell me to go to the cops because if I do, I’ll never get my Lotto ticket back.”
Impassively Moffitt agreed. His cell phone rang. He turned it off. “I’ll do what I can,” he said.
JoLayne turned to Krome. “We’ve known each other since kindergarten. He takes a personal interest in my well-being, and I do the same for him.”
“Don’t lie to the man. I’m lucky to get a Christmas card.” Moffitt tapped his knuckles on the table. “Tell me about the guys who did this.”
“Rednecks,” JoLayne said, “red-to-the-bone rednecks. They called me, among other things, a rotten nigger slut.”
“Nice.” Moffitt spoke in a tight voice. When he reached for his Coke, Krome noticed the bulge under his left arm.
JoLayne said: “We’re following them.”
“Following.” Moffitt looked skeptical. “How?”
“Her credit card,” Krome explained. “They’re burning a trail.”
Moffitt seemed encouraged. He took out a gold Cross pen and reached for a stack of cocktail napkins. In small precise script he took down the details JoLayne gave him—the purchase of the lottery ticket, how she’d met Tom Krome, the break-in, the beating, the red pickup truck, the missing video from the Grab N’Go. By the time she finished, Moffitt had filled both sides of three napkins, which he folded neatly and tucked into an inside suit pocket.
Tom Krome said, “Now I’ve got a question.”
JoLayne nudged him and said not to bother. Moffitt shifted impatiently.
“Who do you work for?” Krome said. “What do you do?”
“Use your imagination,” Moffitt told him. Then, to JoLayne: “Call me in a day or two, but not at the office.”
Then he got up and left. The bar stayed quiet; no sign of Dolly or his pals.
Fondly JoLayne said: “Poor Moffitt—I give him fits. And he’s such a worrier.”
“That would explain the gun,” said Krome.
“Oh, that. He works for the government.”
“Doing what?”
“I’ll let him tell you,” JoLayne said, sliding out of the booth. “I’m hungry again, how about you?”
Amber’s boyfriend was named Tony. He’d been on her case to quit her job, until she made first alternate for Miss September in the Hooters Girl Calendar. After that Tony came to the restaurant three or four times a week, he was so proud. The more beers he drank, the louder he’d brag on Amber. This, she understood, was his suave way of letting the customers know she was spoken for.
Several months earlier, the Hooters people had asked Amber and three other waitresses to pose for a promotional poster, which was to be given away free to horny college guys on Fort Lauderdale beach. When Amber told Tony about the poster, he immediately joined a gym and began injecting steroids. In ten months he gained thirty-two pounds and developed such an igneous strain of acne across both shoulders that Amber forbade him to wear tank tops.