“I bet you think it’s okay to burp as long as you’re drinking vodka martinis.” But then he belched himself Of these three men Miles and Osmond had known each other the longest.

It suddenly occurred to Rudd that Miles belonged in a sixties Jack Lemmon movie; then it sadly occurred to him that they all did. He downed his drink in one gulp. He hated that thought. Riot my ass, was a better way to think. Small magic with a dash of eye contact brought Rudd another drink.

He touched the glass as the alcohol from the first began to tickle him and it felt well to be in this place. Very familiar, even Miles and Osmond a comfort, the cool of the emptiness, between the rushes, the staff would call it. But then the only staff present was Jill and the bartender. Rudd assumed there had to be kitchen staff somewhere in the back, prep cooks and such, but other than the occasional white-aproned brown-faced illegal alien timidly slipping out for a coke for the cook looking like some beaten-down shifty Toby thinking Kunta Kinte, Kunta Kinte, these people remained transparent to the clientele. Just as well. This day was tense and getting tenser, though Rudd could barely admit this to himself, and the clean room sparsely dotted with only white faces was something of a comfort. Very familiar, very predictable, the best single reason to keep coming back.

“Say, Rudd,” began Osmond, “you don’t think this is going anywhere, do you, this bullshit across town?” He sounded frightened, this big man, unless Rudd was projecting his own secret concerns; oddly, it endeared him to Rudd.

“’Course not,” he replied.

“I know, I know.” He laughed but it came out as a snort just short of embarrassing due to his bulk. “I’m just hoping you can calm down this excitable asshole. It’s all he can talk about. All afternoon.” He indicated Miles with the base of his martini glass as he lifted it to bury his face.

“Fuck if I’m worried,” said Miles. He patted the space under his left arm, under his jacket. “I’m covered, as usual.”

“Still carrying around that antique?” Rudd couldn’t resist any more than Miles could resist showing off his Colt at every opportunity.

“Yeah, well I’m still saving up for one of those nice new plastic guns like the one you got strapped around your ankle right now.” He gave Rudd a look like, I got ya’, and the other man tensed, wanting badly but not daring to look at his ankle right now and see for himself exactly what was visible. Miles continued, “Besides what are you talking antiques with that German piece of shit you carry every day.”

So he let it go and maybe I’m not all that busted, thought Rudd. Try: “Truth be told my Walther has been jamming lately. That’s why I’ve taken to the Glock most every day too.” He gave his firmest most authoritative nod-one jerk-thinking: You’re nothing to me, you’re nothing to me.

“Right,” said Miles, doing a better job than usual of masking his true thoughts, if he had any. “Say Ossie, show him your cannons.” To Rudd: “You’re not gonna believe this. He carries these fuckers wherever he goes, long as I’ve known him.”

A big grin swept over Osmond’s face as, looking down the bar to confirm they weren’t being watched, he unbuttoned his jacket and turned to Rudd.

“Jesus,” said Rudd, duly impressed. “Forty-four mags? Smiths?”

Osmond, already nodding quickly and still grinning, squealed, “Twin model twenty-nines!” He raised his eyebrows as if to underscore the exhibition he was granting before buttoning his jacket quickly. Then he quickly stiffened, turned to his drink, and affected a posture of nothing-funny-goin’-on-here.

Rudd marveled at the man, wanted to look around for the teacher. Well, he supposed, if I was that fat I could play double Dirty Harry too. “Well I suppose Tony’s is safe,” he quipped and immediately regretted it when he saw the jolt of fear pass through Osmond. This guy really was worried.

Miles, either oblivious, uncaring, or more skillful than Rudd, pitched in with, “Oh, Tony’s is safe all right. Anybody that could afford to be in here has too much to lose to ever let anybody else walk in. Besides, didn’t this place used to be a police station or something? I mean, it’s built like a fortress. You ever drive by here at four in the morning and see those security shutters? It’s like a fucking bank vault! Tony must be one paranoid fuck.” He polished off his disgusting drink and hollered at the bartender, who was ready for anything from Miles, “Let’s try a Pernod rocks with a splash—just a splash—of Evian.”

Jesus, thought Rudd. “Savings and loan,” he said.