22
“TWO OF YOUR BEST TOWELS, please.”
The man behind the counter didn’t move. He was reading a worn paperback and his dark eyes lifted from the pages, staring through Mr. Crowley. The counter man’s large head grew directly into his shoulders, swallowing his neck. Shoots of gray chest hair spindled up and tickled his clean-shaven third chin.
“We are closed. Members only,” he said, his words buried deep in Slavic dialect.
“You should not be here,” Mr. Crowley said, dropping his smile, “She should not be left alone.”
“Huh?”
“You shall regret putting your duties before your love if you choose not to act,” Mr. Crowley said, affecting his speech to the rhythms of a sideshow fortune teller.
A look of shock crossed the counter man’s face. He realized who Mr. Crowley was.
“Are you... the se
