Page 11 of Thick as Thieves

“New policy.”

“Since when?”

“You want it or not?”

Ledge pointed into his glass. “Make it a short one.”

The bartender refilled his glass without benefit of either ice or water. He set the bottle aside, draped his towel over his shoulder, and leaned down, setting his elbows on the bar to bring himself eye to eye with Ledge. “You rarely stay this late. Bad day?”

“It was okay.”

“Tell me another.”

Ledge took a sip of his freshened drink. The whiskey had just the right amount of sting and felt damn good going down. Real good. Too good. Which was why he always paid for his drinks, even though the Burnet who owned the place was his uncle Henry, who had reared him.

Running a tab kept track of his consumption. He had self-imposed this accounting and was afraid to suspend it. He never took a bottle of hooch home with him, either.

“You go see Henry today?”

Ledge shook his head.

“I know it was bad the last time you went.”

“And the time before that.”

The billiard balls clacked. Half the young men around the pool table reacted with groans of defeat and expletives, the other half with whoops of victory and expletives.

When they quieted down, the bartender said, “May not seem like it, Ledge, but Henry’s still in there somewhere. One of these days he may surprise you with a spark of recognition.”

Ledge didn’t agree, but he nodded as though he did. He wouldn’t shoot down Don’s wishful thinking.

Don White had worked alongside his uncle in the bar for as far back as Ledge could remember. More than merely the bartender, Don had been entrusted with the bookkeeping and other facets of the business.

When Henry’s Alzheimer’s had progressed to the point where he could no longer be relied on to carry out even routine, everyday functions, Ledge had offered to let Don buy him out. Don wouldn’t hear of it.

Ledge said now, “Changed your mind yet?”

“Since yesterday?”

“Well?”

“No. Stop asking.”

“I’ll let you pay it out over four years. Five if you need more time.”

“I’ll continue running this place like it was mine, you know that. But Burnet’s will belong to Henry Burnet for as long as he’s drawing breath. After he’s gone—”

“He is gone, Don.”

“Ask me again, after. Then we’ll see.”

Don was sixty-something. The story was that days before his wedding to his high school sweetheart, she’d been killed at a train crossing.

Ledge didn’t know the particulars, because, in all the time he’d known the man, Don had never referred to either her or the tragedy that had taken her. But the lady must have been special, and the love of Don’s life. He was friendly with women customers. Over the years, plenty had gamely encouraged more than friendliness. But if Don had ever had a date, or even a hookup, Ledge was unaware of it. His life was the bar. He had adopted Henry and Ledge as his family.

From an objective observer’s viewpoint, they must appear to be a sad, sorry trio of men.

Hell, from Ledge’s viewpoint they did.