“That’s true,” said the Reverend. “After all, I chose the two of you for friends, didn’t I?”

Grant laughed as he slapped a five-dollar bill onto the bar. “First zinger of the evening, Ted. Pony-up time.”

Jackson slipped his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a five. “I suppose that whole ‘bite my bag’ thing doesn’t count?”

“No,” said the Reverend, holding out his hand. “Though it was a refreshing change from your standard ‘Lick my left one,’ so heartiest congratulations on further expanding your repertoire—and in my defense, I’d like to add that Arnold the Pig remains one of the wisest and most articulate characters in the history of American television.” He snapped his fingers. “Grace the palm, grace it now.”

Grant and Jackson handed him their money; as they did so, the door to the men’s room opened and the guy from earlier emerged, washed and shaved, wearing a fresh shirt, and smelling of Old Spice. Grant went over to the pass-through and retrieved the guy’s dinner (just up) and set everything down in front of him.

The guy looked from Grant to Jackson (his gaze dwelling for a few moments on the gun dangling from the sheriff’s hip) and then to the Reverend. He nodded a wordless hello at them, and then turned his attention down toward the food.

He ate his meal in silence, his eyes never coming up to meet anyone else’s gaze, and then ordered some cheesecake for dessert. After that came his third drink of the night; he was now two away from the Hangman’s limit.

Holding up the empty plastic bowl near his corner of the bar, the guy cleared his throat and said, slurring a few words here and there, “Could I get some more popcorn, please?”

“Sure thing.” Grant took the bowl, filled it with a fresh batch from the machine, and set it down just as the guy asked for another gin & tonic.

“This’ll be your fourth drink, friend,” said Grant. “I realize I’m probably way the hell too late in asking this, but are you driving?”

The guy shook his head and then stuck out his thumb. “Hitching. I caught a ride with a trucker in New Jersey and got out at the truck stop at Buckeye Lake.”

Jackson leaned forward. “You walked here from the truck stop? That’s got to be at least, what? Eight miles?”

The guy shrugged. “It’s a nice evening.”

“You could’ve eaten there,” said Grant. “The food’s pretty damn good—hell, they’ve even got pay-showers you could’ve used instead of having to wash up in the sink.”

The guy smiled but there wasn’t a lot of joy in it. “I heard the food’s better here.” He took a few sips from his fresh drink, set the glass down on the bar, and then removed a prescription bottle from his pocket, popped one of the tablets into his mouth, and chased it with another sip.

“Is that a good idea?” asked Jackson. “I’m not an expert, but it seems to me taking any kind of medicine with alcohol isn’t high up on anyone’s ‘Smart Things To Do’ list.”