39
Pokotylo, sitting with a couple of older men at one end of a long table right next to the Irish Arms’ central bar, raised a glass half-full of thick foamy dark beer as Dale approached. “Ah, our newest ShufflSoft committer! Your bug reports, they are closed, no?”
Dale had to concentrate to assemble Pokotylo’s words into meanings. “Not yet. It’s been a rough day.” Talking to everyone, even with the excuse of his numbers trick, had worn his nerves paper-thin. His head felt two sizes too big, the extra space filled with gluey tar that squeezed his brain.
“Yes.” Pokotylo turned to the others and raised his glass again. “To Warren Lash.”
The other men raised their glasses. “Lash.”
That wasn’t too hard to understand. Dale had heard the sounds of Lash’s name often enough tonight that they
