‘‘When I was your age, I put in long days and longer nights. You just turned thirty, for Christ’s sake. Porch sitting on a warm Saturday night in June is for old men. Go on, take a drive. See where you end up.’’ He winked. ‘‘I bet we both know where that’s likely to be.’’

The sudden blare of automatic gunfire and screams made Ethan jerk in his chair. He blinked and stared hard at the porch rail. There was no one there. Of course there was no one there, he told himself with a quick shake. He’d nodded off for a minute, that was all, and the movie action in the living room had wakened him.

But when he glanced down, he saw the glowing cigar in his hand. Baffled, he simply stared at it. Had he actually taken it out of his pocket and lit it in his sleep? That was ridiculous, absurd. He must have done it before he’d drifted off, the habit so automatic that his mind just didn’t register the moves.

Still, why had he fallen asleep when he didn’t feel the least bit tired? In fact, he felt restless and edgy and too alert.

He rose, rubbing the back of his neck, stretching his legs on a pacing journey up and down the porch. He should just go in and settle down with the movie, some popcorn, and another beer. Even as he reached for the screen door, he swore.

He wasn’t in the mood for Saturday night at the movies. He would just take a drive and see where he ended up.

GRACE’S FEET WERE NUMB all the way to the ankles. The cursed high heels that were part of her cocktail waitress uniform were killers. It wasn’t so bad on a weekday evening when you had time now and then to step out of them or even sit for a few minutes. But Shiney’s Pub always hopped on Saturday night—and so did she.

She carted her tray of empty glasses and full ashtrays to the bar, efficiently unloading as she called out her order to the bartender. ‘‘Two house whites, two drafts, a gin and tonic, and a club soda with lime.’’

She had to pitch her voice over the crowd noise and what was loosely called music from the three-piece band Shiney had hired. The music was always lousy at the pub, because Shiney wouldn’t shell out the money for decent musicians.

But no one seemed to care.

The stingy dance floor was bumper to bumper with dancers, and the band took this as a sign to boost the volume.

Grace’s head was ringing like steel bells, and her back was beginning to throb in time with the bass.

Her order complete, she carried the tray through the narrow spaces between tables and hoped that the group of young tourists in trendy clothes would be decent tippers.