There was a half-decayed trailer court behind it and tiny pastel houses on the far side of the street. The restaurant’s sign boasted Air Conditioned! like it had been invented yesterday. A faded Texaco sign was nailed to the side of the building.It was like looking at the south Everglades, circa 1950.We parked at the edge of the shell lot, a few battered pickup trucks closer to the door. I peeked through the window, seeing pine walls hung with taxidermied fish, a short wooden bar and a dozen tables. Patsy Cline was singing about walking after midnight. Two men sat at the bar as a guy behind it flipped meat on a grill. Three other guys played cards at a table, a pile of coins centering the tableau. The cook-bartender was maybe fifty and no one else looked under eighty.I figured if I went in flashing tin I’d make them nervous. Two cops would be worse. I jogged back to the Rover. “You’re staying here,” I told Gershwin. “It’s old guys night.”“Drink your Geritol, Big Ryde.
