The detective tracked Cliff down in the first bar he stopped at; a dingy, local hangout off the highway. Cliff was sitting at the bar, pounding the counter, demanding another drink. The bartender eyed Byrd, a former NYPD cop, retired out here for the slower pace. Byrd unzipped his tan jacket over his middle that had grown a little slack, about average for a man in his sixties.
Byrd took the stool next to Cliff and nodded to the bartender. “Next one’s on me.”
“Your funeral.” The big, bearded bartender, with eyes that had seen everything, poured two drafts of what was on tap and slid them in front of Byrd and Cliff.
“Thanks, pal.” Cliff slurred his words.
“A man sitting alone at a bar with that kind of look, reminds me of what my ex did to me, after she robbed me blind and kicked me to t
