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The crowd wouldn’t really get going for another half hour. Hardy pushed himself up off his stool. He kissed Jane casually, saying he’d be right back, then walked the length of the bar to where Moses was watching a game of liar’s dice as though it were the World Series. In other words, pointedly ignoring Hardy.
“Hey, Mose.”
He looked up.
“I quit,” Hardy said.
Moses squinted, moved over and forward a step, and leaned over the bar. “What?”
“I quit. I’m not bartending anymore, starting now.”
He flashed him a broad and phony grin and went back to join Jane.
“What do you mean, you quit?” Moses was in front of him again.
“Just send me my profit checks,” Hardy said. “I couldn’t live around you feeling guilty all the time. Let’s go, Jane.”
“You’ve still got this pan?” Jane said. “It looks brand new.”
Hardy nodded over his eggs. “Treat things right, they last,” he said.
They’d gone to di
The doorbell rang.
“Reasonable hour,” Hardy said. He yelled down the hallway. “Go away.”
The bell rang again. Hardy swore, went into his room and put on a pair of jogging shorts.
“Who is it?” he asked at the door.
It was McGuire. He held the folder in one hand. “I’m a horse’s ass,” he said.
“Yep, you are.”
“You want this stuff?”
Hardy shifted on his bare feet. “You want to give it to me?”
“You earned it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
McGuire gave it a last thought. “Yeah.” He nodded. “You want to sign these papers?”
“No. Tomorrow will be fine. I’ve got some company now.”
“But you could just…”
“Tomorrow, Mose, when I come in to open, okay?”
He closed the door on his friend and, turning, saw Jane standing waiting for him at the end of the long hall.
John Lescroart
JOHN LESCROART, the New York Times best-selling author of such novels as The Mercy Rule, The 13th Juror, Nothing but the Truth, and The Hearing, lives with his family in northern California.