“Yes, he did. And it’s a Walker hound. I took her home with me. Left her with my girlfriend. You?”

“Damn, them’s some good dogs.” Taking a sip, Johnny says, “Wish I coulda punched my boss. Working sixteen-hour days, no double time on the weekends. Took a sick day, and they gave me my walking papers. Can you believe that?”

“No shit?” For all Hunter knew, the guy was a horrible worker. Called in all the time. There was always more to the story.

“No shit. Management’s about as useful as tits on a boar hog. Don’t give two fucks about a man and his family; only work, work, work. Twenty years,” Johnny says, fingertip stabbing the bar top. “Twenty damn years I been loyally busting my ass for them.”

“They got a bottom line.” The guy is really down on the management. Hunter is glad he never really dealt with big organizations—only the higher-ups in the army and only for a short stint.

“Better bet your ass they got a bottom line. And I get that,” Johnny tells him, spreading his arms out, palms facing up. “But you best be on board with it, or else—”

“Or else it’s the unemployment line.” This Johnny guy had been sitting on this bar stool and simmering, and now he looked just about ready to boil over. Dying to chew the fat with another soul. Starving for a release of his troubles.

“Nail on the head,” Johnny says to Hunter. He takes another sip of his bourbon.

A young woman with peroxide locks and a flaming-red T-shirt approaches Hunter and Nugget, laying down two menus. Hunter sees her as the kind who is attractive to guys who drink every day. She has that party-girl vibe going on as she asks sweetly, “What I can get you gentlemen to drink today?”

Wanting something with a bit of hop. “I’ll take a Sierra Nevada.” Hunter says.

“Same for me,” Nugget says. “And we got another guy coming.”

“No problem, hon. Will he be drinking?”

“Yeah, just not sure what.”

“No worries. I’ll get your beers; you-all look over the menu. My name’s Lisa if y’all got any questions or need anything. This on one or two checks?”

Hunter says, “I got it.”

Nugget says, “Nah, man, come on, I can get it.”

“So can I.” Hunter opens his menu. “You getting a ribeye?”

Johnny, eavesdropping, tells Hunter, “They got a damn good ribeye.”

Nugget says, “That’s me, the hand-cut ribeye.”

Johnny says, “That’s a damn good choice. Probably their best steak.”

Hunter tries not to get irritated by Johnny’s whiskey-scented interruption. The poor fuck just got sacked from his job. Hunter closes his menu and lays it on the bar. Lisa returns with two frosty glasses. “Two ice-cold pale ales for you guys. Wanna order now, or wait on your friend? Or maybe an appetizer?”