Chapter 20
Early the next day—early for folks in his profession anyway—Frank woke to the sound of a shower running. He yawned, swung his legs off the memory foam mattress, fighting to not lie right back down.
He stood, stretched toward the ceiling until a satisfying stream of crackles ran through his back and joints, then dressed and walked out to kitchen.
Horace was already awake, holding a huge mug of black coffee in both hands the way some people a religious talisman.
“Hey, buddy,” Frank said, pouring his own cup of morning medicine. “How’d you sleep?”
“Like s**t,” Horace said, rolling his eyes. “Jackoff snores worse’n I do, and that’s saying something.”
“Poor guy,” Frank said without sympathy. He’d shared sleeping quarters with his buzz-saw of a friend more than once. “I think yo
