Troubadour
The old man sat in the back-corner booth of the weakly lit dispersion unit. Smoke, both legal and illegal, clouded the view of him as he sat in the corner sipping a glass half full of amber liquid. A young man walked up to the table, his hat in hand, and looked at the old man’s face, hidden by dark glasses and the wide brim fedora.
“Excuse me, sir, but are you the man this establishment is named after? The Troubadour?” the young man asked with a shaky voice.
“Now that is a right interesting question. Why don’t you sit for a spell, and I might be able to answer it in an equally interesting way?” The old man looked up through his sunglasses, a single gold tooth shining back from his otherwise perfectly white teeth.
“Thank you, sir. I think it would be an honor if I could hear
