7
Dale jumped in surprise, bumping the flimsy bar table.
Mallard and Peterson grabbed their beer glasses.
“Dale Whitehead you must be,” rumbled the burly man at Dale’s elbow. He wore a pristine white T-shirt with the words “ShufflSoft” in big blocky letters, with the words “21st-Century Web” beneath them. The cotton shirt’s chest and sleeves strained against his dockworker biceps.
“Uh,” Dale said. How could anyone here know who he was? His stomach spasmed like he’d swallowed a hedgehog. At least he hadn’t knocked over a beer in surprise. “Hello?”
“Misha Pokotylo,” he said. “Your Twitter profile pic, not bad. Not as pasty as you, but not bad.”
Dale’s hedgehog dissolved. He’d talked to Pokotylo more than once online. “Oh, right.” He held up a hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Meet in meat, y
