These last two words are spat at Martin, but the wallet’s already in Stanford’s large hands being rifled through. “First of all, boys, I’m the faggot,” he says. “In fact, Faggot Fancy was my nickname in high school. And now you’re banned for life. This cash here is your very generous and mortified tip for your shitty behavior, and good night.”

He tosses back the empty wallet to the man who does not catch it, being drunk, but must scramble for it and a few of its flown items, losing forever a hole-punched coupon for coffee drinks. But Martin is looking at the woman and her fading plight. She has reset herself a bit and is waiting, too much cash in hand, for her drink, and is drying her face with another towel. Martin looks at the soggy bills, the president’s face also damp and unfamiliar. Who’s on the hundred, is what he is wondering, but he just says, “Are you OK?”

The woman can’t seem to answer yet. The banned men have tramped outside through the rainy doorway where another woman is standing. It is Padgett, remembering what she loves about Martin Icke.

She’s arrived late, having plotted to show up at five. Too much time bided at a worse, grainier bar. Her mouth has bourbon all over the place.

“Martin.”

She and Stanford say it at the exact same time. They both want him to look at her. He already has, though, and boardinghouse-reaches across the bar for two glasses, tinkling together in one hand, and a bottle with an emblazoned label. He heads over to the little bench by the jukebox, which has tired of mambo and is playing an angry something about youth. He smiles when he sits down, and Padgett trails along to him with a wave to Stanford and one finger lollygagging down the length of the bar, swerving into space to avoid the woman whose toddy has arrived, and a couple, self-conscious, who have tried the summer samples and are drunker than planned.

There’s not really room for two on the bench, which is part of its trick. You practically have to make out if you’re sitting together.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, his voice shaky.

Padgett nods and narrows herself into the bench. Martin pours them both something and then puts the bottle in front of the jukebox like it’s looking the songs over. The muddy woman wanders to one of the tables, and Martin looks over at her but stops looking after her. There’s hospitality, he believes in it, and then there’s Padgett here in front of him.

“I like this,” she says, after the first sip.

“It’s a new rum from the Anderson Valley,” he small-talks. “They age it in a whiskey barrel.”

“That’s how I’m aging,” Padgett says. “Are the glasses new, too? They feel new.”