The little man looked at the clock, which said 3:15, and then at the front windows which were shuttered tight. Then he looked at the six of us sitting at the bar with our drinks.
"I'll have bourbon and water," he said. He sat down at the end of the bar on the stool next to mine and looked at his reflection in the mirror without approval.
Larry got the look that bartenders get with troublesome customers.
"The bar's closed," he said again. "It's a city—"
"Water on the side," the little man said. "Don't mix it."
Abe Marker, who does sports for the Advertiser, got up and checked the front-door lock. The thumb-catch hadn't been thrown, so Abe put it on and came back to the bar.
"Nobody else will wander in," he said. "Make with the t-v, Larry. You're holding up the show."
Larry looked stubborn.
"It's after 1:00 a.m.," he said. "And that door was supposed to be locked. There's a city ordinance—"
"You're breaking it already," the little man said, looking at us. He didn't seem angry, just weary and disgusted. "Not that I give a damn. All I want is a bourbon and water."