Do you ever look like warmed-over shit,” Kevin said, nudging the closest bar stool toward his friend with one foot so Duncan could sit down next to him. Duncan gave him a dirty look. Hannibal followed obediently at his master’s heels and curled up with his head on his paws at Kevin’s feet. Dogs weren’t encouraged at Steamworks, but no one had ever said anything to them in all the years they’d been coming here. Hannibal was as much a part of their Tuesday night, guys only ritual as beer and peanuts. Kevin reached down to scratch the dog’s ears and got an adoring look from the poodle. Kev watched speculatively as Duncan made himself comfortable in the proffered chair, and held up two fingers to the pretty barmaid to indicate he wanted a beer and another one for his irritating companion. It was shortly after six and the pub was pleasantly uncrowded, even for a Tuesday. A few college guys played pool listlessly in the back, and a pair of older ladies in brightly coordinated tracksuits shared a plate of Calamari by the window with one of the pub’s famous gargoyles standing sentry-duty over them.
