The strains of Old Mal’s guitar filled the air along with lingering smoke from patrons who had long since departed this poorly-lit tavern. It left an oily scent that made Michael wrinkle his nose. Most of the square tables were empty, though some still had mugs that were yet to be cleared away.
He sat at the bar, staring into his beer with a frown that tightened his mouth, barely able to keep his eyes open. Growling, he tossed his head back and downed the last of his drink. “Another!” he barked, slamming his glass down on the counter.
Paul Robson, a bald man with one eye that seemed to be stuck in a permanent squint’ shuffled over to serve him. “Easy there, Michael.” Or to chastise him. Sometimes one came right on the heels of the other.
A day without shaving had left plenty of stubble
