21
Puck emerged from the back office to tend to the bar during the afternoon lull, right before happy hour, during the turnover of shifts for the waitresses. He was behind the bar, wiping down the top, when a stranger came through the front entrance. Puck’s senses automatically went on alert. He was a big man, looked like a bouncer at a club, with a crooked nose that had obviously been busted up numerous times. But he was dressed mighty fine for a mere bouncer, sporting a cashmere coat and a silk scarf. Taking a seat on a stool, he placed his hands on the bar top. The sleeves of his coat pulled up and showed wrists decorated with curb-chain bracelets that looked made of eighteen-carat gold. Mafia, by the looks of him.
“You know where I can find a man named Puck.”
Puck looked him over, m
