the young barman asked. The nametag on his shirt read “Oliver.”“That’d be great,” said Morgan. “Another Red Stripe.”“You were in last night, weren’t you?” Oliver asked, getting Morgan’s beer from the fridge behind him. “I was just going off shift when you came in for dinner.”“Yeah, that’s right. I arrived yesterday. Taking a few days off.”Oliver wiped down the bar and placed the beer in front of Morgan on a new coaster. Morgan took a long drink while Oliver engaged him in amiable small talk about the weather, work and women; clearly a well-practiced patter he’d established over countless similar encounters across the bar. Morgan didn’t mind. It gave him a chance to get more of a feel for the place. Last night’s attempt at gathering any kind of information was a wash out. The bar had been dead quiet with only a few hotel patrons having dinner, young couples mostly. He’d stayed until about 11pm before deciding to cut his losses and, after a much-needed sleep in, had spent the day recovering by the pool.
