He arrived at La Cantina right on five-thirty, satchel over his shoulder. Although its advertised opening time was 6pm, the front sliding door was open a few centimetres. Reuben stepped inside. Frank and another man sat at a corner table. The interior was as dingy as the outside and smelt of stale alcohol and cheese. Mexican parrots wearing sombreros dangled from the ceiling.
‘Littledick!’ Frank clicked his fingers. ‘Another beer please, Gunther!’ He nodded to his companion. ‘Meet Bomber.’
The other man stood up and held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet ‘cha.’
He was tall and rangy with a goatee beard and long grey hair tied back in a greasy ponytail. He wore white wrap-around ‘happy pants’, woven sandals and a tie-dyed shirt. A relic from hippydom, right down to the glaze in his eyes tha
