21
WOLFE
Wolfe sleeps late. The barkeep pokes him with the splintered hilt of a broom, but he only grumbles. His eyes are bleary with ale when he opens them, and his head is pounding.
“Buy something or shoo,” the keep says. “Breakfast crowd will be here soon, and they’ll want your stool.” So Wolfe scrapes the last few coins out of his pocket and slaps them onto the bar. But he orders nothing.
The keep pours him a cup of coffee anyway. Wolfe thinks it tastes stale, like reheated dregs. It’s no match for the mallets banging on his skull. But he sips it anyway.
All around, saggy-eyed women are wrapping benches in garland and hanging banners over the amber-glass windows. A clanking sound rattles from the kitchen. Aromas too rich for the early hour pour out whenever the cook kick
