“That’s free money. That’s free money. I didn’t even know about craps, but I could tell, that’s free money.” Energy rippled through his wiry frame. Five foot five, a buck and a quarter at best, he strung words out like dynamite fuse. “With craps there’s a feel. You can feel it, feel the pulse in the bones. He gave me a five dollar chip and I just felt it, like he said, and I made ten and then I just kept betting and winning.” He took the smallest of breaths and went on. “That happened with Blackjack. The guy was helping me because I didn’t know about blackjack but I was winning. I kept winning.”

I thought the story was over and began reforming the question, now lost in the river of his words. Before I could utter it, he started again.

“I and my neighbors, the girls you’re talking about, they stay in a house right across from me, is right there.” His thin arm, inked with a blue Mickey Mouse, flung an invisible image of the two girls to his side. 

He rattled off a couple dozen more words that I found impossible to follow. My chest tingled with impatience as he chattered. His mouth blathered on about this and that, while I considered how to best crash in on this monologue of wonderment. An overflow of youthful exuberance churned away with endless resources. No thing, lived or dreamed, suffered the drain of disappointment or frustration. In some ways his homily on optimism held back the forces of evil that were bent on purloining opportunities meant for his future success.

I’d driven out to the Wilderness Club Resort to speak with the kid who was supposedly at the party with Renée and Vicky on the night Aidan died. My sister needed the alibi, but it was turning into a mess of work to get it.

“Stop,” I said, lifting my hand with the authority of a school crossing guard.

His head rocked back, eyes wide.

“I’m here to tell you that the train you’re on has some unpleasant way stations. The smooth ride gets bumpy. You might experience a crash soon.” I let him soak that up for a beat.

The kid’s forehead wrinkled and the incessant smile faded as confusion and disappointment hijacked his features. No way to tell if they were the result of a reality check or my lack of enthusiasm for how well his life was going.

“Now, tell me when you saw the girls at the party. Did they stay together?”

“Yeah. Them two never separate. It’s like they got attached by some invisible string.”

“That night? Was it the same?”

“Mostly, I think.” He tipped his head as if he was trying to remember.

“You’re not sure?” I asked, a bubble of frustration rising into my throat. 

“No,” he said at last, looking me in the eye with a firm nod. “They were together the whole time.”

I forced my glower into a grin. “Good. They were together.”

He said, “They left a little early cause the shorter one was feet-dragging drunk.”

“The shorter girl? You’re sure?”

“It was the new girl. Not Vicky. I know Vicky. She was carrying the new one with an arm over her shoulder. Guess she’s a lightweight. Me, I don’t drink at all. You can see the size of me. Don’t take nothing at all to get me off my game—”

“You’re absolutely sure it was the other girl, not Vicky, who was drunk?”

“Oh, you bet. I’ve seen them hanging around together for a few weeks. Closest I’ve seen to Vicky without that angry growl she calls a face.” He touched his own mug as if to make sure it hadn’t rubbed off on him. A forced smile reassured him. “That Renée, she’s been a good influence. A hell of a lot more approachable, for sure.”

“You didn’t see them again after Vicky carried her out?”

“Nope. I was into my Blackjack. That’s not a run of luck you step away from.” His head kept shaking long after the moment had passed.

I stuck my hand out, giving him something to focus on to stop the perpetual motion.

His grip was tighter than expected.

“Thank you, Billy. That’s very helpful.”

“No worries, man. Call me Bilbo. My friends say I’m like a Hobbit. Gotta get the ring for Gandhi, you know.”

“Gandalf,” I corrected.

His head tilted to one side, eyebrows closing in on the center of his face, squinty-eyed the way a dog tries to understand people talk. 

“Not important.” I timed a follow up smile to alleviate hard feelings, and extracted my hand. “The Sheriff may want to talk to you about this.”

“Sure thing. That Deputy character already came by. Spiesz. I told him all about it.” He glanced at his hands. “Not sure he’ll remember much though. Kind of an oddball. Seems to forget a lot of things you say.”

“Well, hopefully not your name.” I grinned.

A beat passed before his face opened and he let out a chuckle. He got the joke.

I took off like a shot, letting all the jittery angst of listening to Bilbo propel me out of there. Lunchtime could give me the advantage I needed.