CHAPTER TWENTY-TWOAt around 5:30, I left the office and walked to Mitchie’s. Instead of taking a table, I grabbed a seat at the bar—the best place to sit following an afternoon of talking to creditors. It all seemed quite fitting. The Nats were on, playing Atlanta, so I could watch the game while I ate. No one was paying much attention to me anyhow.
“What’s the strongest drink you make?” I asked the bartender, a man with licorice-black skin, corn rows, and an easy smile.
“What do you like?” he said. His accent was musical, suggesting warm breezes and green Caribbean waters.
Not being a drinker, I had no idea, and I told him so.
“Well . . .” He seemed to give it some thought. “Maybe a Long Island ice tea?”
“Mmm.” I thought it over. I knew those were strong, but I wasn’t in the mood for
