My still sleep-groggy brain zipped around like a lightning bug. Tony? Oh, Tony. He was one of the artists at the co-op, a metal sculptor who worked part time as a welder and sometimes, like Olivia, as a bartender. Was he the artist overseer of the week? My heart started pounding. Had something happened at the museum?“What’s wrong?” I said. “The museum ...”“It’s not that. Everything’s copacetic. Greer’s the overseer this week. No, I just thought I’d better call you before things get out of hand.”“What do you mean?” I clicked off the TV set, which was now showing some type of show about the dangers of dust mites in our beds. They looked like huge Godzilla-like fleas, and I shivered at the thought.“I’m working at the Frio Saloon tonight, and we’ve been having a problem with your brother-in-law. Thought you might want to come down here and talk him into leaving before he gets himself into trouble.”“Shoot, how drunk is he?” I asked.“He’s had eight beers and three shooters of tequila,”
