We luck out and manage to grab a table in the back of the Denny’s dining room. Whether or not there are any d**g dealers occupying the few back booths is anybody’s guess. The uniformed waitress approaches us, and we order four Grand Slam breakfasts. Edge orders an extra plate of bacon, just to be sure his heart valves get enough cholesterol. He’s also somehow managed to sneak one of his last remaining beers into the restaurant under his Mysterious Bookshop t-shirt.
When he snaps the tap on the beer can, the sound attracts the attention of a late middle-aged man who’s sitting alone in the booth beside us. He’s reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. Could be he’s a d**g dealer. Yet, somehow, I don’t think so. But when he hears the beer tab snapping open, he turns lightning quick. Edge, in
