He lifted his drink and tipped it steeply above his face. The ice ran down the slope and bumped coldly against his lip, but he held it until the last of the pale, bubbling amber had drained into his mouth. He set the glass on the bar and faced the brown man.
“Well?” he said.
The brown man looked up and down the bar.
“It’s getting late,” he said. “Not many people left. We’ll wait.”
“Wait for what?”
The brown man looked toward the back booth and looked away again quickly.
“I have something to show you. I don’t want anyone else to see.”
Lyman surveyed the narrow, smoky room. As he looked the last customer beside themselves at the bar began groping in his pocket, tossed some change on the mahogany, and went out slowly.
They sat in silence. The bartender eyed them with stolid disinterest. Presently a couple in the front booth got up and departed, quarreling in undertones.
“Is there anyone left?” the brown man asked in a voice that did not carry down the bar to the man in the apron.