Leslie pulled his rusted-out pickup into a parking spot across the street from Mike’s, scraping both tires against the curb. He sat there, finishing his cigarette, watching the door. The whole street was dark, shops closed, quiet, just the streetlights going and the light from Mike’s showing through the frosted glass. As the last drag from his cigarette burned his fingers, the door opened, and the street was momentarily flooded with noise—laughter, glasses, squeals, yells, and talk. Two people staggered out, a man and a girl in tight Levi’s, arms wrapped around each other as they made their way to one of the cars parked in front. They both got in on the driver’s side, giggling and laughing as she slid over—just barely enough for the driver to get in.

“That’s what I need,” Leslie said softly. “A tight piece of ass.” The couple drove off after a lurching start, and Leslie jumped down from the pickup, slamming the door behind him. He tucked in his T-shirt and sauntered across the street.

The humid air hit him like a steam bath. He stood at the door, surveying the place. A typical Friday night. It was packed. Smoke hung in the air like a thundercloud, stinging his eyes. The jukebox was too loud; there were too many people. Not an empty seat, as far as he could see.

He shouldered his way to the bar and got a beer, then turned, one elbow on the bar and one boot hiked up on the rail, looking for somebody he’d want to drink with. He knew most everybody there.

The old folks had the corner booth. They always took that booth; everybody said Mike served them for free so they’d hang around to stop trouble before it started. They did, too. Any loud swearing or rumblings, and the old gents were right there, either cooling it down or escorting the offenders out. Four old men. They played cards.

The rest of the place was filled with young people, with an occasional visitor or old lady boozing it up at the bar. Come closing time, it got real friendly inside Mike’s, and most everybody got laid on a Friday night, trading partners around from week to week.

“Hey, Les!” Leslie turned and saw Ned, his face flushed, perspiration running down his cheeks. “They let you out, eh? Let me buy you a beer.”

Little asshole. Squealer. “Yeah, okay.”

With a beer in each hand, Leslie followed Ned to his table in the back, pleased to see that there were already three girls sitting there, giggling drunkenly. His chances were looking better all the time.