The three men finally get to us and stand in front of our table. If this had been an old western movie, and the sun somehow could’ve been shining inside this crap hole of a bar, their impending shadows of doom would’ve been cast long and wide over us.
Avocado Face speaks first, addressing the old man. “Didn’t think you’d be here, Sanchez?”
So, that’s his name. It fits somehow—old-world, old-family, long on tradition. Dangerous.
There’s some nervous laughter that they try to pass off as good-natured, as if all of this is a game. I smile like I’m in on the joke while looking over Jack’s shoulder to map out my escape. Ten steps from here to the pool table. Sharp right, straight shot to the exit. I can be out the door and in my car in fifteen seconds flat—ok, maybe thirty—and if God’s on my
