Coop lit his cigarette. It wasn’t as good as he’d hoped. Some kind of low-tar monstrosity. Coop shook his head as the horrors of the regular world settled on his shoulders.

As if reading his mind, Morty said, “Come on. I know a place.”

Coop walked with him a few blocks to a place called the Grande Old Tyme. He stuck his head inside the dim space and came out sure that the last grand time anyone had had in the place was guessing what the bartender watered down the whiskey with. The place was decorated with exactly two things: sad-sack day drinkers sipping their shots at the bar and a broken jukebox wrapped in police caution tape.

But he followed Morty inside, where it was at least cooler than the street. On the way in, the dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk and a mangy pigeon picked it up in its beak. Coop felt bad about sticking the bird with such a lousy smoke, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Morty ordered them both whiskey sours. Coop raised his eyebrows.

“Cocktails? Are you asking me to the prom?”

“Relax. They’re good and I don’t want you drinking too fast and maybe getting pugilistic again.”

Coop shrugged.

“It’s your dime.”

“Exactly.”

The drinks came and Coop sipped his. It was too sweet, but the whiskey was there enough to bite him and it was good after a year and a half of toilet Beaujolais.

“So, you have a job,” said Coop.

“Yeah.”

“Do I know the guy?”

“No.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” said Morty. After a second he shook his head. “No. But he comes highly recommended.”

“What does ‘highly recommended’ mean?”

“It means that when he offers, you don’t say no.”

Coop sipped his drink.

“I’m out,” he said without looking up.

Morty waved his hands in the air like he was conducting an orchestra.

“What? You can’t. This is your comeback job.”

Coop looked down at the bar.

“I don’t work for nut jobs or people more crooked than me. This guy smells like both.”

“Speaking of smell . . . ?”

“Don’t ask. Thanks for the drink.”

“Wait—there’s a bonus.”

That stopped him. “What kind of bonus?”

Morty leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.

“If we do it by the next new moon, there is an extra hundred grand.”

“Why then?”

Morty sat back.

“I don’t know. It’s his birthday or the moon spooks him. What do you care?”

Coop took a gulp of his drink. The whiskey was starting to burn his stomach a little more than was comfortable.

“He said a hundred grand specifically?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s not going to rip us off?”

“He has a good rep.”

Coop took a long pause. “Hell,” he said.

“Then you’ll do it?”

Coop downed the last of his drink.

“You were right before,” he said. “I’m broke. Buy me lunch and let me think.”