Six
The bar was off of Highway 62, north of Myerton. The sign out front advertised all-you-can-eat boiled shrimp and a crab cake po boy. I doubted many of the pickups and sedans in the parking lot were there for the food, not at four in the morning. The bar had the heavy smell of beer, liquor, and desperation. The polished wood bar paralleled a mirrored wall with dozens of bottles—tequila, whisky, scotch, bourbon—behind which stood a young lady pulling a mug of beer heavy with foam. Country music played from the loudspeakers. John wasn’t at the bar. I looked around the half-filled room and spotted him alone in a booth, nursing a shot of something.
I walked up to him and stood at the table for a minute. He didn’t appear to see me, or at least he didn’t acknowledge my presence. “J
