Chapter Seven
Two months later . . .
The noon rush was almost past. When the clock struck one, it was uncanny the way the place cleared out. Half the city ran on that unconscious time, when all hell breaks loose for one brief hour, and then returns to serious conversation, purposeful talk, and efficient postures when the hour is over. Jack never needed a clock to tell the time of day.
"Place doesn't feel the same, Jack," Chip Jones barked at him from way down at the end of the bar. The fat florid faced man sat in the same spot every day, warmed the seat for at least an hour and a half. He wasn't on the same time schedule as the rest of the city. A private detective who named his own hours, there were just a few working ones in his regular day. He'd be at the tavern down the street by fo
