We tagged along like freight cars hitched to a long train until we turned into the Boondocks Grille parking lot on Ramrod, taking care to keep our tires vertical through gravel patches. Beth found us a car-width spot next to a pickup that bore the bumper sticker: WOMEN WANT ME, FISH FEAR ME. It must take a hell of a man to sense fear in a fish. The restaurant is a huge tiki hut with a bricked patio at ground level and an elevated open-air bar and restaurant. To the mellow tones of “Summer Breeze” by Seals and Crofts, we climbed to the dining area, to six flat-screen TVs and that many women in red tank tops with “STAFF” printed on their backs. We approached one of the tall round tables surrounded by bar stools. “This won’t work,” said Beth. “She won’t feel comfortable perched high on one of these.” “Don’t tell me you’ve had a witness interrogation course, too.” She looked puzzled then figured out that I was referring to Bobbi. “A couple of years ago, in California.
