false-flag missions for the U.S. government, he thought. From killing hitmen for a living once he got back home. “From giving a shit about what anybody thinks of me getting drunk in the middle of the day,” he said.
She sighed and changed tactics. “How about a bite to eat, at least?” Her tone was solicitous and optimistic. Hendricks pegged her for a chronic overachiever, unaccustomed to failure.
“How about you pour me another goddamn whiskey?”
“Fine.” She ducked behind the bar, fetched a bottle of Early Times from the well, and refilled Hendricks’s shot glass. Then she poured him a cup of coffee from the thermal carafe beside the register. “On the house,” she said.
“Look, kid—”
“Cameron,” she said.
“Look, Cameron, ” he corrected himself, “I appreciate the effort. But you don’t know me, and you couldn’t begin to understand the shit I’ve been through. You’ve got no idea why I’m here or what I’ve lost.”
“I’ve also got no idea how you’re still upright. Just take the coffee, okay?”
Hendricks picked up the coffee and took a sip. It was lukewarm and tasted of plastic. He made a face and set it back down. Then he raised the brimming shot glass in Cameron’s direction.
“Cheers,” he said. But before he brought the drink to his lips, she shook her head and stormed away.
He watched her round the corner at the far end of the bar and disappear from sight. Seconds later, he heard the kitchen’s swinging double doors bang open. Once they’d clacked shut behind her, leaving Hendricks certain she couldn’t return without him hearing, he dumped the shot into the potted ficus tree beside him.
He’d been coming to the Salty Dog—a quaint, clapboard-sided seafood joint overlooking Long Island’s Port Jefferson Harbor—for three weeks, always parking his ass on the same stool from noon to closing. In that time, the ficus had been outdrinking him three to one. He was amazed he hadn’t killed the thing by now. Every once in a while, he made a show of spilling a shot across the bar, in part to establish himself as a sloppy drunk, and in part to explain the smell this corner had taken on. It must’ve worked, because no one in the place had said five words to him until today, when the new girl decided to take pity on him—and even she’d been here a week before she gathered the nerve.
Hendricks figured she was just some overzealous undergrad, bright-eyed and idealistic, who’d yet to learn that the broken people of the world rarely wanted to be fixed. And although he was plenty broken, it was a life of violence—not booze—that was to blame.
The shot disposed of, the waitress gone, Hendricks watched the anchored sailboats bob like seabirds on the bay. He was happy for the momentary quiet. It didn’t last.
A shadow fell across the restaurant’s storefront. Hendricks swiveled in his stool and saw a black Range Rover roll to a stop at the curb. A spray-tanned side of beef in wraparound sunglasses climbed out of the backseat. Then he pushed open the Salty Dog’s front door and stepped inside.
He wore a polo shirt two sizes too small for him and a pair of garish madras shorts. Canvas loafers, each the size of a rowboat, encased his feet. If his getup was intended to help him blend in with the yacht-club set, it fell well short of that goal. His nose was misshapen; his ears were cauliflowered. There was no doubt in Hendricks’s mind that he was hired muscle.
The man took off his sunglasses and looked around the restaurant. Hendricks feigned indifference, swaying drunkenly atop his stool and idly spinning his empty shot glass on the bar like a top. The man eyed Hendricks in his frayed khaki shorts, rumpled button-down, and sweat-stained Titleist ball cap and apparently dismissed him. Hendricks looked like half the drunks in every ritzy-zip-code bar from here to Hilton Head.
The man flipped the sign in the front window to CLOSED , shut the curtains, and took up a
She sighed and changed tactics. “How about a bite to eat, at least?” Her tone was solicitous and optimistic. Hendricks pegged her for a chronic overachiever, unaccustomed to failure.
“How about you pour me another goddamn whiskey?”
“Fine.” She ducked behind the bar, fetched a bottle of Early Times from the well, and refilled Hendricks’s shot glass. Then she poured him a cup of coffee from the thermal carafe beside the register. “On the house,” she said.
“Look, kid—”
“Cameron,” she said.
“Look, Cameron, ” he corrected himself, “I appreciate the effort. But you don’t know me, and you couldn’t begin to understand the shit I’ve been through. You’ve got no idea why I’m here or what I’ve lost.”
“I’ve also got no idea how you’re still upright. Just take the coffee, okay?”
Hendricks picked up the coffee and took a sip. It was lukewarm and tasted of plastic. He made a face and set it back down. Then he raised the brimming shot glass in Cameron’s direction.
“Cheers,” he said. But before he brought the drink to his lips, she shook her head and stormed away.
He watched her round the corner at the far end of the bar and disappear from sight. Seconds later, he heard the kitchen’s swinging double doors bang open. Once they’d clacked shut behind her, leaving Hendricks certain she couldn’t return without him hearing, he dumped the shot into the potted ficus tree beside him.
He’d been coming to the Salty Dog—a quaint, clapboard-sided seafood joint overlooking Long Island’s Port Jefferson Harbor—for three weeks, always parking his ass on the same stool from noon to closing. In that time, the ficus had been outdrinking him three to one. He was amazed he hadn’t killed the thing by now. Every once in a while, he made a show of spilling a shot across the bar, in part to establish himself as a sloppy drunk, and in part to explain the smell this corner had taken on. It must’ve worked, because no one in the place had said five words to him until today, when the new girl decided to take pity on him—and even she’d been here a week before she gathered the nerve.
Hendricks figured she was just some overzealous undergrad, bright-eyed and idealistic, who’d yet to learn that the broken people of the world rarely wanted to be fixed. And although he was plenty broken, it was a life of violence—not booze—that was to blame.
The shot disposed of, the waitress gone, Hendricks watched the anchored sailboats bob like seabirds on the bay. He was happy for the momentary quiet. It didn’t last.
A shadow fell across the restaurant’s storefront. Hendricks swiveled in his stool and saw a black Range Rover roll to a stop at the curb. A spray-tanned side of beef in wraparound sunglasses climbed out of the backseat. Then he pushed open the Salty Dog’s front door and stepped inside.
He wore a polo shirt two sizes too small for him and a pair of garish madras shorts. Canvas loafers, each the size of a rowboat, encased his feet. If his getup was intended to help him blend in with the yacht-club set, it fell well short of that goal. His nose was misshapen; his ears were cauliflowered. There was no doubt in Hendricks’s mind that he was hired muscle.
The man took off his sunglasses and looked around the restaurant. Hendricks feigned indifference, swaying drunkenly atop his stool and idly spinning his empty shot glass on the bar like a top. The man eyed Hendricks in his frayed khaki shorts, rumpled button-down, and sweat-stained Titleist ball cap and apparently dismissed him. Hendricks looked like half the drunks in every ritzy-zip-code bar from here to Hilton Head.
The man flipped the sign in the front window to CLOSED , shut the curtains, and took up a
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