“It’s never been closed like this before,” said one. He was about fifty, stout, with white hair combed straight back from a ruddy face.

“Old Dan’s like clockwork. You could set your watch by it. The Bilge opens at ten o’clock. No earlier. No later,” said another, a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses.

“He closed once for a couple of weeks, maybe five or six years ago,” said the third, a young guy with long hair caught in a ponytail, who Lucy knew played guitar with a local rock band, the Claws. “He went to Ireland that time, for a visit. But he left a sign.”

“What’s up? Is the Bilge closed?” she asked.

They all turned and stared at her. Women usually avoided the Bilge, where they weren’t exactly welcome. A lot of fishermen still clung to the old-fashioned notion that women were bad luck on a boat—and in general.

“I’m Lucy Stone, from the Pennysaver,” she said. “If the Bilge has really closed, that’s big news.”

“It’s been shut tight for three days now,” said the guy with the ponytail.

“Do you mind telling me your name?” she asked, opening her notebook. “It’s Dave, right? You’re with the Claws?”

“Dave Reilly,” he said, giving her a dazzling, dimpled smile.

Ah, to be on the fair side of thirty once more, she thought, admiring Dave’s fair hair, bronzed skin, full lips, and white teeth. He must be quite a hit with the girls, she decided, reminding herself that she had a job to do. “Has anybody seen Old Dan around town?” she asked.

“Come to think of it, no,” said the guy with glasses.

“And your name is?” she replied.

“Brian Donahue.”

“Do you think something happened to him?” she asked the stout guy, who was cupping his hands around his eyes and trying to see through the small window set in the door.

“Whaddya see, Frank?” inquired Dave. He turned to Lucy. “That’s Frank Cahill. You’d never know it, but he plays the organ at the church.”

“Is he inside? Did he have a heart attack or something?” asked Brian.

Frank shook his head. “Can’t see nothing wrong. It looks the same as always.”

“Same as always, except we’re not inside,” said Brian.

“Hey, maybe we’re in some sort of alternate universe. You know what I mean. We’re really in the Bilge in the real world, having our morning pick-me-up just like usual, but we’re also in this parallel world, where we’re in the parking lot,” said Dave.

The other two looked at each other. “You better stick to beer, boy,” said Frank, with a shake of his head. “Them drugs do a job on your brain.”

“What am I supposed to do?” replied the rocker. “It’s not my fault if Old Dan is closed, is it? A guy’s gotta have something. Know what I mean?”