@page { margin-bottom: 5.000000pt; margin-top: 5.000000pt; } Five When I arrived at O’Reilley’s at five-thirty, Gil, the regular day bartender, was behind the bar, reading a paperback. I asked him if Frank was around and he shook his head. “But he’s coming in today, right?” “Yeah, he called before. He’ll be in soon.” Gil went back to reading his book—Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy. Gil was about twenty-five and he had black curly hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Whenever he wasn’t serving customers, he always seemed to be reading a book or writing in a pad. He said he wrote short stories and poems, but nobody in the bar had ever read anything he wrote. I used to think that the guy was doing the right thing—working at a bar to support his dream—but now I realized what a loser he was. At six o’clock, Gil’s shift was over and Gary wasn’t in yet so I took over at the bar. Usually, Thursdays were good nights for happy hour, but maybe the cold was keeping people away because it was seven o’clock and there were only five people in the whole place—a couple of girls at the bar drinking screwdrivers, and a few guys in suits drinking beer, standing behind the girls, trying to get up the balls to go over and talk to them.
What do You think about Hard Case Crime: Fake I.D.?
