He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. You entered Fuzzy’s #3 through a pair of heavy swinging doors with thick panes of dirty glass shaped like half-moons. The doors were covered in heavily padded, faded red leatherette decorated with hammered-brass studs. Half the studs were missing and the other half had last been polished during the Truman versus Dewey campaign. If then. He pushed the doors open. Gary Cooper’s spurs jingled as he strode into the Last Chance Saloon.
The darkness hit him first, and while his eyes adjusted to it he took in the sour odor of the place and the music coming from an old-style jukebox. Inside Fuzzy’s #3 the music was more complex than the simple thumping he’d heard from the sidewalk. There was a loud saxophone and there was some drumming.
If the bar
