It was raining again the following Thursday night when a damp and bedraggled Johnny Liddell wandered into Mike’s Deadline Café. He headed for the bar, signaled for a drink.
Mike shuffled down to where Liddell stood, reached to the backbar for a bottle of scotch. He slid it in front of Johnny, brought a glass and some ice up from the well.
“Your secretary reach you, Johnny? She called here a couple of times around eight. Said it was important.”
Liddell grunted, looked up at the clock on the wall, saw it was after twelve. “It can probably wait until morning.”
Mike shrugged. “Suit yourself. All I know is she kept calling and said it was important. She said to tell you to call her whatever time you dropped by.” He tilted the scotch bottle over the glass, filled it to the rim. He reached fo
