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let their hair grow long and tied it with colored ribbons； some simply shoved it behind their ears and didn't give a shit； or pretended not to。 There were poets and painters； firebrands and fuckups； innocents and wantons。 There were Missing Mile townies and college kids from Raleigh and Chapel Hill； the ones with legal IDs and money for beer； the ones who paid his bills。 There were younger kids furtively fumbling with flasks； adding liquor gotten from God knows where to their Cokes from the bar。 Unless this was done in a particularly obvious or obnoxious manner； Kinsey usually turned a blind eye。
He had just hooked up a new keg of Budweiser when Terry Buckett sat down at the bar。 The band had done their sound check earlier； and it was obvious they'd been practicing： they were tighter than ever； Terry's voice clear and strong； R。J。's bass line thunderous。 〃What do you call that style of music？〃 Kinsey had asked after listening to a couple of numbers。
〃Swamp rock；〃 Terry had said with a grin。
Now he grinned up at Kinsey again； stoned and amiable； muscular drummer's forearms propped on the bar； tie…dyed bandanna wrapped around his dark curly hair。 〃Noodle soup； huh？ Where'd you e up with that？〃
〃A cookbook called The Asian Menu；〃 said Kinsey。 〃With certain variations。〃
〃I'll bet。 Well； let's give it a try。 Gimme a Natty Boho too。〃 National Bohemian was the Yew's bar brand。 At a dollar…fifty a bottle it was a hot seller。 Kinsey opened a frosty bottle and set it on the bar in front of Terry； then started preparing the soup。
〃Talked to Steve and Ghost today；〃 Terry said。
〃Yeah？ They call the store？〃 Steve and Ghost were the two members of the band Lost Souls？； the spray…painted lyric WE ARE NOT AFRAID was from 〃World；〃 the song they always used to close their set。 Steve played a dark； fierce guitar； Ghost had a voice like golden gravel running along the bottom of a clear mountain stream。 A couple of weeks ago they had returned from a gig in New York and promptly left town again for a cross…country road trip in Steve's old T…bird。 San Francisco was their ultimate destination； but they would plan their route as they traveled； and they might be gone for as much as a year。
〃Yeah。 The new guy answered； and Steve goes This is John Thomas from the IRS calling for Mr。 Buckett。' I about pissed myself when he handed me the phone。 That little bastard 。 。 。〃 Terry laughed and shook his head。
〃Are they doing okay？〃
〃Sure。 They're in Texas now。 Steve said they played at a coffeehouse in Austin and the folkies loved 'em。 Sold some tapes too。 Maybe I ought to check out Austin。 You ever been？〃
〃No。 One of my favorite underground cartoonists came from there； though。 Bobby McGee。〃
Terry frowned。 〃McGee？ Wasn't he the guy who 。 。 。〃
〃Yup。〃
〃That house is still standing out on Violin Road；〃 Terry mused。 〃I was only eight when the murders happened； but I remember。 They say it's haunted。〃
〃Of course they do。 It might even be true。 But his ic Birdland was brilliant； right up there with Crumb and…〃
〃Didn't he leave one of his kids alive？〃
Kinsey served Terry a steaming bowl of noodle soup。 〃Yes； he left a kid。 A five…year…old son； I believe。 And no； I don't know what ever happened to him。〃
〃I bet he was fucked up real good；〃 said Terry； slurping thoughtfully。
〃Excuse me。 Could I get a bowl of that soup？〃 said a quiet voice from the end of the bar。
Kinsey turned。 Neither he nor Terry had noticed the boy before； the bar was crowded and the kid fit right in； tall and slender； plain black T…shirt tucked into black jeans； wavy ginger…blond hair grown long and pulled back in a ponytail from a bony； almost delicate face。 A battered gray backpack was slung over his shoulder。 He looked about twenty and carried himself like someone maybe even younger； unsure of his wele and not particularly wanting to be noticed。
But his eyes were arresting： a transparent； icy blue； large and round； irises rimmed with a thin line of black。 They seemed enormous in the thin face。 Waif…eyes； thought Kinsey； hunger…eyes。
〃You new in town？〃 Terry asked through a mouthful of noodles。
The boy nodded。 〃I came in on the bus about an hour ago。〃
〃That's new； all right。〃 Terry offered his hand。 The boy looked confused for a moment； then reached out and shook。 〃I'm Terry Buckett。 I run the record store here； in case you need any sounds。 Everything from Nine Inch Nails to Hank Williams。〃
〃Hank Williams； Senior；〃 Kinsey interjected。
〃Senior； absolutely。 For Bocephus you have to drive to Corinth…he's a little too all…American for us。 Who're you？〃
〃Trevor Black。 I usually listen to jazz。〃
〃Got some of that too。〃 Terry grinned at the boy。 After a moment's hesitation； the boy smiled tentatively back。 Terry's friendliness was hard to resist； he would keep talking until a person starting answering； even if it was just to shut him up。
Kinsey set a bowl of soup in front of Trevor Black…the name seemed vaguely familiar； but he couldn't think why … and collected the boy's dollar。 〃I usually buy new customers a beer。 If you're under twenty…one； I'll buy you a Coke。〃
Trevor tucked a neat bundle of noodles into his mouth。 〃I'm twenty…five。 But I don't drink。 I'll take a Coke。〃 He chewed the noodles； then frowned。 〃This tastes just like Oodles of Noodles。〃
Terry snorted。 〃Kinsey practices what you call 'found cuisine。'〃
〃The broth is homemade；〃 Kinsey said coolly。 〃Would you like your dollar back？ Either of you？〃
Terry just waved an impatient hand。 Trevor seemed to consider it for a moment； then shook his head。 〃No。 This is fine。〃
〃So glad it meets with your approval；〃 Kinsey muttered； turning away to get the kid's Coke。 Behind him he heard Terry snort again。 Kinsey closed his eyes and took several deep breaths。 It was going to be a long night。
An hour later Gumbo was churning away onstage； Trevor Black was still perched on his stool nursing his third Coke； and the bar was a scene of utter chaos。
Kinsey had gotten a local kid called Robo to collect money at the door。 Robo； at eighteen； was well on his way to being Missing Mile's resident stewbum…he got his nickname from the bottles of Robitussin he shoplifted from the drugstore…but Kinsey figured he was just capable of counting dollars； stamping hands； and managing not to pocket any of the band's proceeds as long as Kinsey slipped him a couple of beers during the show。
The club was packed。 Terry and R。J。 Miller； Gumbo's bass player； had sat in with Lost Souls？ a number of times and were already known as solid players。 The guitarist was a glam…rock dynamo； a kid named Calvin who in fact bore a strong resemblance to the Calvin of ic strip fame； but punked out and tarted up considerably。 Gumbo served up a foot…stomping set； hot as Tabasco； intoxicating as Dixie beer。
Since the band started； Kinsey had been drawing constant cups of draft； popping endless bottletops。 Just before eleven the keg of Bud ran dry。 Kinsey ducked into the back room and walked a new one onto the dolly。 The kegs were heavy and awkward； and when he was in a hurry he usually managed to roll them off the d