‘I bet he is,’ the voice said. ‘Just don’t let any women in here.’
‘No women,’ Mike said. ‘No problem.’
I went through the tables to the farthest one on the right.
‘You want whiskey, Tim?’ Mike asked.
‘Tim?’ the man said. ‘Tim?’
‘Beer,’ I said, and sat down.
A nearly empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, three glasses, and about a dozen cans of beer covered the table before them. The soldier with his back against the wall shoved aside some of the beer cans so that I could see the .45 next to the Johnnie Walker bottle. He leaned forward with a drunk’s guarded coordination. The sleeves had been ripped off his shirt, and dirt darkened his skin as if he had not bathed in years. His hair had been cut with a knife, and had once been blond.
‘I just want to make sure about this,’ he said. ‘You’re not a woman, right? You swear to that?’
‘Anything you say,’ I said.
‘No woman walks into this place.’ He put his hand on the gun. ‘No nurse. No wife. No anything.
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