CHAPTER EIGHTThe same bartender was on duty. On the bar stools and at the tables most of the faces were different. Only a few of the serious drinkers seemed to have staked out permanent possession of their places.
The plaid shirt Lindsey had first thought might be Francis was gone. A young couple sat at the table where Margarita had sipped her tequila cocktail. They had their eyes and their hands all over each other.
Lindsey stumbled into the bathroom and washed up. He took a long hard look at himself in the mirror. His face was streaked with dirt and there was a reddish bruise on one cheek—probably the result of landing facedown when he was slugged. The only mark on his neck was a red bruise just above the shirt collar. He wiped his face with a paper towel and attempted, gingerly, to pu
