Cape GirardeauD
eeter Manson was doing his best. He’d bluffed, promised, whined, and offered a sweet deal, but the fat man who owned Pedro’s Roadhouse out on 55 south of the city wasn’t having any of it.
“You got a buck thirty on the fuckin’ bar-tab, asshole. Last week you was gonna pay this week. Now you’re in here cryin’ the poor-ass? I ain’t buyin’ it, Deeter.” The fat man plonked a dinged and dented baseball bat on the bar next to Deeter’s beer and pointed at it. “I told you what was gonna happen if you showed up without no cash for me.”
“Jesus Christ, man. You know I’m good for it. Couple of frat rats is havin’ a big party on the weekend. I’m supplyin’ their weed. That’s three bills on Saturday. I’ll give you two of it before closin’ time on Saturday night. I swear it, man.”
“I he
