10:00 P.M.
Malone’s Bar and Grill squatted near the interstate on the fringes of an industrial park. It was a converted warehouse clad with corrugated steel and painted a hideous shade of purple. The front wall was embossed with dents left by departing patrons who could no longer find reverse. A gravel parking lot surrounded it, bordered by weeds and filled with rusty pickups parked haphazardly. The cluster of Harleys huddled near the rear door appeared thrown together and hard used, almost piratical. Even standing outside, Corrie could feel the throb of rock and roll played badly.
This is the place to be, she thought, if you are looking for a fight on a Saturday night.
When she opened the door, noise and smoke assaulted her. Far to the rear, an all girl band was screaming incoherent
