It's up . . .
It was a half hour before closing time. The bar was deserted. It mostly had been since Scooter left. Vito, Bucky, and I were deep in the heart of a game of dirty word Scrabble so pointless Billie’d finally packed up her things and gone home. As the night progressed, our game turned into a mini-marathon. Our zeal to create a little entertainment had us cheating, searching through the letter pile to construct “cooter”, “meatwand”, “phatpooty”, get that coveted triple word score for “zespeedoworm.”
The front door was propped open to save Vito a few bucks on air conditioning, and the rain was coming down so hard it made ear vibrating noise as it hit the awning. A guy walked in out of the night, shaking the rain off, greeting Vito and Buck by name, nodding curtly in my direction. He had strange eyes. My hackles climbed the back of my neck, seizing soft tissue. I bet myself a million bucks he was a cop, an evolutionary throwback, a man who busted heads for a living and liked it. I hated cops.
I reached into the cooler and pulled out a light beer, plopped it on the bar in front of him. He looked at the beer. He looked at me.
“Looks like my reputation precedes me,” he said.
“Lucky guess,” I answered.