He was wearing a black tie with an orchid, hand-painted in white and mauve, on the silk. The outrageous necktie seemed at odds with the rest of him. In his early sixties, he was still fit and held himself with a confidence that said he was on top of life. Deeply tanned, like a man who’d spent his life on a golf course chasing pars, he had sharp blue eyes and stiff, wiry black hair that looked like it had an attitude to equal the guy himself. Even his eyebrows were thick and aggressive, but when he smiled I found myself smiling back at him. A bartender quickly learns how to size people up, and I knew a few things right off. This man was different from the normal drinker who wanders in at lunchtime. This guy wasn’t in the Sunset because he was thirsty for a beer; he was there to talk. I could tell because he stood right in front of the beer taps. If you want to talk to the tender, position yourself where they can’t ignore you: at one of the work stations. I raised a finger and said, “I’ll be right with you,”
