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13
13White light flashed like a strobe on the street outside. I smelled gunpowder. The café windows vibrated, but the thick glass muffled the sound of the explosion. Bert slid the geneva bottle across the floor. “Happy New Year,” he said. I checked my watch. “You’re two hours early.” I refilled my glass. The liquor smelled as vile as the fumes seeping in under the door. We were sitting on the floor behind the bar. The doors were locked and the lights out, except for the glow from the television mounted at one end of the bar. Bert was far less sanguine than Erika about the possibility of attack. He’d picked this drinking spot because it offered the most protection. But so far, the only assault had been on my ears, from the people outside celebrating the end of the year. Low-volume cheering
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