Chapter 22
DEACON
A week later - Friday evening
“Ginny, another round, please.”
The blonde buxom bartender at Streyhorn’s heads to the third shelf and grabs a blue bottle from its surface. Her hands are quick, deft as they pour my umpteenth drink of the night, and she slides it across the sullied table without flourish, her heavily made up face as stoic as it was the second I walked in.
I snatch the glass from the sticky bar top, tapping its edge, and my Armani cufflinks wink in the dim light as I raise my glass, ready to drain the damn thing.
I cheers to no one.
“To you, Ginny,” I say softly as the server ignores me. “May empty air never hit the bottom of this glass tonight.”
I’m just about to pour my favorite poison down my throat when the stool beside me shakes. I glance over to
