chapter 8
James Fraction stood on the top step of Jacob’s Mill that looked over the receding bar and laughed heartily. Nothing had changed. The same musty scent of tobacco straight from the southern counties and rolled right there at the bar lingered in the walls and the old, original seats from when the place opened in the late sixties. The lighting remained miserable, the stench of tired grease hung heavy in the air, and the barflies looked as if they had not left since he turned 21.
The Lovin’ Spoonful played “Do You Believe In Magic” and James called out to Ritchie, the part owner who was tending bar. She looked up and waved back with a look of shock touched with a twinge of excitement.
“Damn, Fraction,” Ritchie mouthed, the sounds lost in the music and the chatter of the regulars.
