Eight
“Evan,” I slurred, two hours and twice as many Mojitos later, “is a louse.”
Kit, across from me in the cramped booth, smiled, nodded, and signaled the aging waitress for another cup of coffee. The woman—fifty if she was a day—waddled over on her thick-soled shoes and poured more murky thickness into my cup.
“Drink up,” Kit ordered, “or you’ll be sorry in the morning.”
Wary of the heavy, diner-issue mug, I lifted the pungent brew and took a sip. The caffeine shot straight to my brain.
“Good Lord, is there any water in this?”
“Not much.”
The coffee jolted me from my rum-induced haze. I looked around at the dingy diner, walls covered in peeling blue wallpaper in a pattern someone must have once thought contributed to the atmosphere. The scarred, melamine tabletops looked vintage
