KING TONIGHT, THE USUAL martini on the dry side, one olive. Boone pours him Sapphire, instead of the well rotgut, a little treat. And why not? Delia, the other bartender, actually showed up for her shift, and it’s been nice and slow for a Saturday. Besides Mr. King and Gina, the only other customers left on his end of the stick are four Germans — big, blond, sunburned beer-drinkers who’ve been tipping a lousy buck a round. He’s not about to let that dampen his mood though. He turns it into a private joke, ignoring them until they’re practically banging their glasses on the bar to get his attention. Mr. King looks like he started early tonight. His tie is crooked, his hair mussed. He attended the funeral of an old friend earlier in the day, and it’s made him nostalgic. “To Ben Crosson,” he says, raising his glass. Boone raises his too, the martini Mr. King bought him. Might as well let the man get it out of his system.
