“Two pitchers of PBR,” Warren’s teammate said. “This guy’s paying.”

“PBR?” Tabitha asked brightly. “That was the first beer I ever drank. Loved it then, love it now.”

“Stuff of dreams,” the teammate said, not quite paying attention to her.

“It’s Warren, right?” I asked, trying to sound tentative and unsure.

“Yeah.” He turned and brushed back his thinning hair. “Um . . .” He blinked, clearly not remembering me.

“We met at the bike club the other night,” I said.

“Oh, sure. You were asking about Brown and what’s her name.”

Emily, I wanted to say, but restrained myself. The man was prickly and annoying, but we wanted information and antagonizing him probably wasn’t the best way to go about it.

“This is my aunt,” I said.

“Oh, you were friends with Brown? And that . . . Emily?” Tabitha’s voice dripped with disdain.

“Not friends.” Warren extracted some cash from his wallet and handed it to the bartender. “Don’t know why you’d say that. Be right there,” he said to his teammate, who’d picked up the pitchers. Then he faced Tabitha square on. “Doesn’t sound like they were friends of yours, either.”

“Don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but . . .” She shrugged.

Warren leaned in. “Yeah, I get it. It’s good to talk to someone who doesn’t think they should both be made saints or something.”

Tabitha smirked. “Different strokes for different folks.”

How that fit this conversation, I didn’t know, but Warren nodded. “Right. That’s what burns me, that no one can see what those two were really like. I mean, there I was, finally getting the recognition I deserve by getting to be vice president of the bike club. But when I stood up to make a speech, they laughed. Out-and-out laughed at me!”

His face turned a curious shade of purple. “They made me look stupid in front of the entire club. So, no, I’m not going to their funerals or memorial services, and I’m not sending flowers or cards. Far as I’m concerned, they got what was coming to them.”

*   *   *

Warren’s angry pronouncement disturbed us to the extent that we felt the need to adjourn to a nearby adult beverage establishment to calm ourselves and talk over the incident.

Tabitha looked at me over the rim of a shiny hammered-copper mug. “The man has issues.”

I nodded and sipped my wine. Everyone had issues; I was old enough to know that. But some people’s were more obvious, and some people’s were more serious. “He scared me,” I admitted. “Not for my own personal safety. More a general adding-more-anger-to-the-universe type of fear.”