byJohnny Liddell leaned against the bar in Mike’s Deadline, made concentric circles on the top of the bar with the wet bottom of his glass. Although it was only eight o’clock, the Deadline was almost empty. A few commuter s who had missed the train after the train after the 6:06 were helping Liddell hold the bar up, planning with dead seriousness to catch the next one to Stamford or Darien.
The bartender stood at the far end of the bar, polishing glasses with a damp rag. He was listening with half an ear to the woes of a faded and slightly blowsy blonde who alternately sipped at her martini and dabbed at her damp nose with a gray white handkerchief.
Liddell drained his glass, signalled for a refill.
The bartender, glad of the reprieve, took a last puff on his cigarette, balanced it on t
