I said, tucking my order pad back into my apron pocket. “We don’t usually have storms this early in the year,” Cosgrove said. I turned my gaze from the television mounted high on the wall above the bar and examined him. He looked good today, dressed uncharacteristically in a suit and tie with his balding pate hatless and what remained of his hair combed neatly. I hadn’t had a chance to say hello to him this morning because Gail was working the bar. “Look at you, all dressed up! What’s going on?” I asked. “Oh, gotta speak to the gang today.” His already ruddy skin darkened a bit. “They require it. Trying to better themselves, I guess.” I smiled. Cosgrove was on the board of the Port Isabel Fisherman’s Collective, a group dedicated to improving the plight of the local shrimpers and commercial fishermen. They also did a lot of solid charitable work. An idea popped into my head. “So what projects do you guys have going on over there right now?” I took his discarded breakfast plate and moved to the back of the bar to place it in one of the bus bins.
