When we entered, they glanced at us long enough to assess our color, then resumed their argument. One of them was up on his knees atop the bar, pointing at the screen, counting some of the players. He said, “There, they got eight on the defense alone. Fucking eight. You tell me again about Notre Dame.”

The bartender was an old-timer with slightly fewer scars on his face than Devin. He had the bored, opaque face of someone who’s definitely heard it all and made up his mind about most of it years ago. He raised a tired eyebrow at Devin. “Hey, Sarge, what can I get you?”

“Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit,” someone by the TV said. “Count ‘em again.”

“Fuck you count ‘em again. You count ‘em.”

Devin said, “What’s the thrust of the intellectual discourse at the other end of the bar?”

The bartender wiped the bar in front of us as we sat down. “Roy the guy on the bar he claims Notre Dame’s the better team because they got less niggers. They’re counting to decide.”

“Hey, Roy,” someone yelled, “the fucking quarterback’s a nigger. How white can the Fighting Irish be?”

Angie said, “If I wasn’t used to this, I’d be embarrassed.”

Devin said, “We could shoot ‘em all, maybe get a medal for it.”

I said, “Why waste the bullets?”

The bartender was waiting. Devin said, “Oh, sorry, Tommy. Three drafts and a shot.”

Someone less familiar with him might have assumed he’d ordered for the three of us. I wasn’t fooled. “A draft,” I said.

Angie said, “Me too.”

Devin hammered a box of unopened cigarettes against his wrist, then removed the wrapping. He took one, offered the pack. Angie took another. I resisted. With pain, as always.

At the other end of the bar, Roy his pale, hairy belly spilling out of a sweaty blue softball shirt was banging his finger off the TV faster than tapped Morse code on a sinking ship. “One nigger, two, three, four, five... six, another makes seven, eight, nine. Nine and that’s just the offense. Buffaloes my ass. Colorado Spearchuckers.”

Someone laughed. Someone always does.

I said, “How do these fucks stay alive in this neighborhood?”

Devin considered the jar of pickled eggs. “I have a theory about that.” Tommy set the three beers in front of him, placed the shot beside them, went back for ours. The shot disappeared down Devin’s throat before I saw him pick it up. He wrapped a hand around one of the frosted mugs, downed half a pint before he spoke again. “Cold,” he said. “My theory is this people like that, you got two choices: you either kill ‘em or you let ‘em be, because you’ll never change their minds. I figure the folks in this neighborhood are just too tired to kill ‘em.” He polished off the rest of his first beer. He still had half a cigarette and two of his drinks were gone.