When Mai left I put Bob Marley’s Kaya on the house deck and turned up the volume. I poured myself a cup of coffee, lit a Camel, and folded my arms. In the rectangular cutout of the reach-through I could see Ramon in a boxer’s stance, toe-to-toe with Darnell, who had raised his long arms, exposing his midsection. Ramon punched Darnell’s abdomen with a left and then a right. Darnell smiled and slowly shook his head.
That was how the afternoon and early evening passed. Buddy and Bubba came in, whispered quietly to each other, and split one pitcher before leaving with a sneer in my direction. Len Dorfman stopped by for a late Grand Marnier and talked loudly about a “savage” he had locked up that day, until a hard stare from Darnell sent him out the door. And Boyle came by for a draught beer and a shot of Jack.
Boyle mumbled about “the fucking streets” and his “fucking kids” throughout his round. I left him, and when I stumbled back from the walk-in with two cases of Bud in my arms, he was gone. A damp five-dollar bill lay across the Cuervo Gold coaster next to his empty