He picked up a dime.
"Hey," said Shorty, "what are you doing?"
"Shut up," said Pete. "George's money is George's money. What he does with it is his business."
"Look," George said, "I didn't mean to hit you so hard. I mean, I hit you so hard my whole hand hurts. So here, you can have the dime, I won't miss it."
He pressed the dime into the man's hand.
"Holy cow," said Shorty. It was the first sound any of the three had made after the man had left, fifteen minutes before.
George stared into the mirror behind the bar, seeking some mighty truth in his own reflection. "He says ... he says Unbutton my shirt, and then...."
George fondled some coins in his hand. "Then he takes that crazy dime, a plain old, regular, crazy dime...."
Pete poured himself a Scotch. "What kind of guy is it, anyway," he said, "who walks around with a slot in the middle of his chest that he puts dimes into?"