I grinned at him, flushed the toilet, and shouldered my way through the door and out into the bar.

A cruddy place, really. Filled with workers from the canary, cashing their Friday paychecks. Eighty dollars, ninety dollars, sometimes more than a hundred with overtime, and it was only seasonal work at that. I edged through a knot of nondescripts and found my stool at the bar, and my Shlitz.

I glanced at my new white formfit Gant shirt in the back bar mirror, and behind, off to the left, to see what my friend was going to do; I shoved the empty bottle over for the bartender and laid forty cents beside it.

He came out, the dark man, out of the latrine, with his black hair combed across his forehead. He shot a quick black-eyed glance at my back, and took his seat at the other end of the bar.

He's handsome, I thought, but not like Kent.

The bartender held up my bottle and asked, "Another beer?"

"Yes, please," I said, smiling and nodding politely.

Six-thiry. About time to get over to Sharon's, after this one. She will hold still until seven, but after that she'll start asking questions.

Oh, what the devil. I came here to think--