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destination.
    Cinch is there by the Round House. “How’d you make out? Are you employed?”
    “I’ll decide tomorrow,” I say.
    “Add another one to the list,” he says. “Haley gave me the go-ahead to hire you. Come upstairs and see where you might be living.”
    “We’ll have to do it later. I’m supposed to meet her at eight.”
    “No one’s on time here. Come up and have a beer.”
    Cinch and I walk behind the Park Hotel to a decaying red wooden building that leans slightly to the right, creating rhomboid rather than rectangular sides.
    “People live here?” I say.
    “The bands stay below and I stay upstairs. We call it the red barn. There’s plenty of room for another.”
    I close one eye, further examining the geometry of the structure. “Is it, um, safe?”
    “A lot of good years left. The red barn is always the last place open on the island. We’ll pack fifty people in here some nights. The downside is that there’s no privacy.”
    The ripped screening on the door at the top of the stairs flaps in the wind, calling us. I bound up the steps. The sway in each aging plank offers extra bounce.
    Cinch holds the door for me. “If you’re a private person, this probably isn’t the place for you, but then again neither is the island. There’s no hiding here. The truth always comes out. You can make it a short time on bullshit, but if you’re going to last, you have to be nice and tell the truth.”
    Inside, the dominant decorating theme is no theme: mismatched furniture, 1970s efficiency sink, stove and refrigerator unit plastered with stickers and decals, beer signs on the walls, and pallid green carpeting that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in thirty years. Beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays decorate the coffee table. When was the last time coffee was even on that table?
    Cinch picks up two Heineken bottles from the floor, spinning them in his palms before sliding them into imaginary holsters at his side. “Actually, this mess is only from last night. That’s pretty good for here. Sometimes two weeks pass before we clean after a party.”
    “At least you drink good beer.”
    He tosses the bottles in the trash. “Nothing but the best. Got a twelve from the cooler last night at four a.m. Birch and I sat here until six.” He reaches behind the couch and pulls out a two-foot Graffix bong.
    “Gooood morning,” I say.
    “I hope this doesn’t offend you.”
    “Not at all. It’s your place.”
    “Well then, don’t mind if I do,” he says, as if he had ever considered otherwise.
    Instant comfort and understanding soak the room. Our banter flows as if scripted. The flame glows, darting in and out of the bowl. A thick cloud emanates from the green skull-shaped base and climbs the clear tube that has yellow and purple stainsstreaked along its surface from extensive use. Cinch lifts his finger from the carburetor and easily clears the tube. He extends the bong toward me.
    “No thanks,” I say. “That’s not one I do.”
    He exhales his hit. “More for me, then.”
    “Hold on,” I say. “I’m on vacation, right? It’s not like I’ve never smoked. I just reserve it for special occasions, sort of a ceremonial peace pipe kind of thing.”
    “Then wrap your lips around this, Tonto.”
    I mimic Cinch’s actions. The skunky smoke tickles my nostrils but scorches my untrained lungs. With each hack Cinch laughs, straining to hold in his hit. I chug half of my beer. “I think one should do it for now,” I say. “You going out tonight?”
    “Wouldn’t miss it. Consider me your personal tour guide to thrills, chills, and spills. Well, maybe not spills, and probably not chills. But plenty of thrills.” He sparks another pull off the bong. “Will you grab me another beer on your way out? I had a rough day at the office.”

CHAPTER TWO
    HALEY EMERGES THROUGH THE RED SATIN CURTAIN THAT COVERS THE DOORWAY BEHIND THE BAR . With the exception of the tan RHB baseball cap, she has traded