She parked a block from Antola's. Leaving the car, she slung her purse, heavy with the gun, over her arm. Briskly she walked down the deserted street.
Antola, standing behind the bar, was tall, thin and red-headed. He stared at her incredulously, wiping his hands repeatedly on his long white apron.
She went past the bar to a small table.
Antola continued to wipe his hands, as if they would not quite come dry. "You want something?"
"Yes, bring me a bacon and tomato sandwich and milk."
"Don't have bacon and tomato. Kippie, she likes tuna. Bass hamburg. Lester and Alice, they both take grilled cheese. Which do you want?"
"Bring me tuna and milk."
"Kippie, she says milk don't go with tuna. Makes a big blob inside."
"I said tuna and milk."
"Okay, if you want a blob inside. Kippie don't." He ambled away.