The exposed shoe confirmed it. Sporadic gunfire continued outside in the not-so-distance.

He filled his glass from the bottle of J&B. Right away it warmed him, too fast to be trusted but he was grateful nonetheless. Fenton, he noticed, was drinking too. No bottle but his drink was the same color as Rudd’s. That would explain the J&B bottle; still, he had moved it in front of Rudd’s stool when he was done. A modicum of loyalty, more in the choice of drink itself, that a victory of sorts.

“Like that scotch?” Rudd wanted to know.

“It’s working,” said Fenton.

“It always does,” Rudd told him, now feeling damn near drunk, what with this drink and all he had earlier. “Hell of a thing,” he added, “you starting to drink five minutes after our only bartender gets shot.” Miles’s shoulders began to rise and fall. At first in his peripheral vision Rudd thought he was crying, but by the time he turned to look Miles had progressed from giggle to guffaw. Osmond took the cue. They all laughed. They laughed hard and they drank and they filled their glasses and laughed some more. Jill folded napkins.

Day2

Rudd awoke smiling, still drunk from the late night before. The smell of coffee hung about the room. As always it struck him as some impossible ideal, that coffee smell, some go-getter bullshit that only served to remind him of how important it was to get a Bloody Mary into him ASAP. Outside a lone gunshot came muffled to his ears, and he remembered how he and Langston had gotten drunk enough to go outside in the middle of the night and secure the external security shutters. It had been relatively quiet and was as good a time as any, but when they got outside the sky glowed orange over the burning city and the crackle of flames carried hoots and hollers down and up the streets and blocks. Once the shutters were locked they had to walk around long to the rear door. Rudd had provided cover while Langston dipped into his car for his pocket cellular phone and several boxes of nine-mm hollow points he always kept under the seat; then they scurried back into Tony’s like kids playing fort, walkie-talkies. Big deal: Langston never got much of a signal inside Tony’s which is why he left the phone in his glove compartment in the first place. Besides, Tony’s phone still worked and the network was now completely down to boot.

Rudd lifted his head. He had passed out on one of the benches up front where waiting-list diners waited for their tables. He was the first one up-second: Jill stood behind the coffee warmer at the far end of the bar, glaring at him as if daring him not to make a dent in the still-full pot.

“What are you going to do about him?” she demanded, pointing at the bartender.

Bartender, he thought. His smile deepened that she had put this in his lap, assumed it was his problem, his decision, his charge. What are you going to do. “Put him out the back door, I guess,” he said.

“You can’t do that. I’ve been awake for hours and they’re out there. I’ve been hearing noises all night. I think some bullets even hit the door. We can’t open that door anymore.