“Hardee har har.” Nalle shook out a cigarette and tossed the pack on the bar. “Is Major coming?”

“Not tonight,” Kennet said. He took a smoke and slid the ashtray closer. “Just us.”

“What’s the occasion?” Minor asked, slicing limes.

“It’s a bachelor party.”

Minor didn’t miss a goddamn beat. “Who’d you knock up this time, Paps?”

“Watch your mouth,” Emil said automatically.

“C’est la guerre,” Nalle said, lighting his cigarette, then Kennet’s. He moved the match toward Emil, who licked his thumb and forefinger and snuffed the flame out, scowling.

“Never three on a match,” he said. “Have I taught you nothing?”

Nalle grinned and lit another. “Sorry. Kennet, turn on the radio.”

“No news reports,” Emil said.

Kennet twisted the dials until he found the Champion Spark Plug Hour.

“Here we go,” Minor said, sliding glasses along the bar top. “What should we toast?”

“Me.” Emil glanced at Kennet, then blew a smoke ring. “I’m getting married again,” he said through it.

Minor lifted his glass. “To Paps getting— What?”

“Married?” Nalle said.

Emil half-lifted his drink. “Again.”

“To whom?”

“Marta.”

Minor blinked twice, then downed his entire drink and plonked the glass on the bar. “Well, holy shit, I believe I’ll have another.”

“In other words, congratulations,” Kennet said.

“Bachelor party,” Nalle said slowly.

“As it were,” Emil said.

“Why didn’t you tell us before?”

“I wanted to wait until you boys were home. Tell you in person.”

“I didn’t mean tell us you were getting married. I meant why didn’t you…tell us?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you were sneaking up the attic stairs, so to speak,” Minor said.

“Don’t be crass,” Nalle snapped. “Maybe your mind lives in the gutter, but you don’t have to take every conversation there.”

“Oh, but I do,” Minor said coolly.

“Settle down, boys,” Emil said. “Nalle’s asking why I didn’t mention this courtship. Am I right?”

Nalle shrugged, reached a leg back to hook a stool and draw it closer. He sat, hurt etched in every line of his body.

“It’s a fair question,” Emil said.

“It’s also none of our business,” Minor said.

“Oh, but it is,” Nalle said.

“Touché, brother. You going to try your surprise?” Minor indicated the Horse’s Neck he’d made for Nalle. It was a beautiful cocktail of rye, bitters and ginger ale, named for the long strip of lemon peel that coiled within the Collins glass, with the “head” dangling over the rim.