Hangman's Root by Susan Wittig Albert

said, deciding for us both.
    "What's an organic avocado?" I asked, but a George Strait song overpowered me, and anyway. Bob had already pocketed his order book and headed for the kitchen. At the table beside us, a family was trading jokes in rapid-fire Spanish, punctuated by laughter. At the table on the other side, two men in suits and cowboy boots were bent earnestly over a calculator, copying numbers onto their napkins—a business deal in progress. At the end of the bar, a group of guys were throwing darts at a poster of the governor in a white cowboy outfit, astride a white motorcycle—a blowup of the cover of a recent Texas Monthly. The governor, too.

    has been known to stop in from time to time. Last month the Enterprise ran a picture of her throwing darts at herself and her white motorcycle. Bean s draws all kinds.
    Another George Strait and two Willies later, Bob was back, loaded with plates of chicken and beef, tortillas, sour cream, cheese, onions, refried beans, and rice, and a huge red pottery bowl of guacamole—all balanced on his forearms. Bob scorns trays. He says that wearing an apron is bad enough; carrying a tray makes him feel like a butler.
    "Hear ya'll had a little excitement up to th' college this afternoon," he said to McQuaid, setting down a bowl of grilled chicken for the make-it-yourself fajitas.
    "Yeah," McQuaid said, refilling my mug.
    "Too bad 'bout Harwick," Bob said. He put down the tortillas. "Any idea who did it?"
    McQuaid sloshed beer onto the table. "What do you mean, who did it?" he demanded testily, grabbing a handful of paper napkins to stem the tide. "The man hung himself."
    "Not 'cordin' to Bubba," Bob said, arranging sour cream, onions, and cheese around the tortillas. "He was in here at happy hour with some real purty blond gal. I heard 'em talkin'. Kind of interestin', I thought. Almost never see Bubba in here durin' the day. He mostly comes in to catch the Spurs on tee vee, play a little pool. Don't know who the gal was. Real purty, though. High class." He set down the guacamole and began wiping up the rest of McQuaid's puddle. "You folks ready for another pitcher?"
    I stared at him. "Aren't you going to tell us what they said?"
    Bob stopped wiping, perplexed. Then his expression cleared. "Oh, you mean 'bout Harwick."
    "Yeah," McQuaid said. "About Harwick."
    The jukebox started again, and Bob raised his voice to be heard over Way Ion Jennings. "Didn't catch it all, but it had some-thin' to do with a pipe. Bubba was sayin' that Harwick lacked a

    foot of bein able to reach up to this pipe that the rope was slung across. Said the guy couldn'ta done it himself. Little short fella, y'know." Bob held his hand at shoulder height. "'Bout so high. Cocky. Sorta like a kid, or a banty rooster. Not much to crow about, but he loved tVare back on his heels an' let 'er rip."
    "Oh, so you knew him," I said.
    "You bet." Bob wiped his hands on his dirty apron. "Used to come in, get a beer on Saturday nights, talk to a few of the guys. One in particular, as I recall. Some friend of his. Max somethin' or other." He frowned. "Wonder where Max's been hangin' out lately. Haven't seen him."
    "Maybe Harwick couldn't reach the pipe," McQuaid said, "but he could have thrown the rope over it." He began to load chicken onto his tortilla.
    "Not so fast," I objected, remembering. "There was only a two- or three-inch clearance between the pipe and the ceiling. It'd be tough to toss a rope through." The skin on my arms prickled. "You know, I didn't think about it," I said slowly, "but Bub-ba's right. The ceilings in that old building are high, twelve feet, at least." I did a rapid calculation. "Harwick was about a foot shy of reaching that pipe. There's no way he could have knotted that rope around it."
    McQuaid looked at me. "Maybe he put something on the desk to stand on."
    "If he did, he didn't leave it on the desk," I said. "Or on the floor." I was suddenly intrigued, thinking of the chants and the signs in