Ogg, I pit-stopped at a blue collar bar out on Route 1 near Mount Vernon. No special reason sent me ducking through its doorway except my yearn for a stiff pour of gin. The illumination created the sallow tint reminding me of a club where the callow Bird, circa 1940, may've refined his jazz chops on the alto sax. My bartender, sipping from a PBR he kept hidden under the cash register, was a pinch-faced dude. He sat on a stool as if he was grunting to pass a kidney stone. My gin finished, I was curt. He gave me the damages—cash only—and as I settled up, this lady blundered into the joint. I did a double take. She was a knockout, literally. Purple and yellow lumped her face as if she'd survived a raw-knuckled nine-rounder. Her gimlet eyes hawking left to right locked on mine. She'd caught me sizing her up, so I gave her a sheepish smile. She didn't smile, as if it doing so was sheer agony, but lunged ahead to grope the edge of the bartop. From observing her minced steps, I suspected fresh welts from a slashing belt buckle marred her legs under the gabardine slacks.
