Sitting in the garden of Maire"s Gentlemen"s Club was always a pleasant experience for Sam. He breathed in the scent of Maire"s roses as she bent to clip off the few blooms that had survived the storm. Creeping honeysuckle and bright purple morning-glories climbed the walls while music drifted into the courtyard from within the house, accompanied by occasional bursts of laughter.
Sam was stretched out on a wrought iron chaise lounge, comfortably tucked into its cushions. He was happy to be dry and back from the dead. He stared at a bottle of Cuervo Gold Tequila on the table. Leon Duval was offering no assistance to Sam"s willpower. Duval had left a note and the bottle of their old college poison in the Shelby sometime that morning before Sam"s return from the cemetery. “Thanks for the adv
