10
Two days later Reggie called and asked me to meet him for a drink at a workingman’s tavern in the Queen Anne district. The place looked like your typical tavern with a long, dark wooden bar with a string of booths on the other side. There were beer signs galore with the smell of it locked into the pores of the building, and common faces in the crowd that would make any portrait photographer dizzy with glee. Reggie sat at a booth in the back with a half filled schooner of beer and a basket of spicy chicken wings.
“Sit,” he ordered. “It’s not your typical watering hole but if you like Buffalo wings, there’s no better place in town. Muriel, the owner, makes these herself.”
I sat, observed the red sauce on Reggie’s lips and reached for a wing.
He slapped my hand. “I wouldn’t do that unt
