in a section of town most stayed away from.
A boy’s club for the cognoscenti of the con
and assorted bad behaviors.

I was beginning to feel at home
until she walked in.
Blonde and blue and maybe packing heat.

That was one thing the frail didn’t need more of.
I watched a few boys try their luck.
She dismissed them with little more than a stare.

My turn.

I took the stool next to her at the bar.
“You must be my new parole officer.”
She gave me the once-over a couple of times.

“Every Tuesday at 7 p.m. Miss a week—you’re back in stir.”
“Fine. Buy you a drink?”
“Are you trying to bribe me?”
“Yes.”

“Bourbon.”

—Don