DAMIEN
The bar reeked of stale beer and overworked cleaning supplies. I stepped in, my boots thudding against the warped wooden floor.
This place looked dead, yet alive, a perfect place to hide under.
A handful of cleaners were scattered around, moving with the kind of sluggish determination that said they were counting down the minutes until quitting time. One guy was crouched down, sweeping up what looked like shards of glass into a dustpan. He barely glanced up when I walked over.
“I need to see the manager,” I said, my voice steady but with enough edge to let him know I wasn’t here for small talk.
He didn’t stop sweeping, just dumped the mess into a trash bin and shrugged. “He’s not in. Come by another time.”
The casual tone was almost insulting. Either way, I didn’t push it.
“A
