The bar I went to on Saturday night was up the coast. The mid-sized car I’d rented was comfortable enough and made the drive an easy one. When I got inside, the place was packed, as expected. I had seen men from my town in here from time to time—the sheriff, especially. Thankfully he was with someone steady now, because some of the men he used to hook up with? Scary.
I waved down the owner and bartender once I pushed my way to the bar—Fred was his name, and one of the few African-Americans I knew of in the area, aside from me—and asked for a Guinness. Once he brought it, I paid with cash and a tip.
“How’s it hangin’, Bill?” he asked, a wicked grin on his face, as usual. He was bigger than me, which was saying a lot. We had hooked up a time or two, just for kicks.
“You know the answer to
