John Frazier shuffle walked. If the jukebox was off his shoes made a noise on the floor of the bar like fine sandpaper.
Bruce Kaufman didn’t hate John Frazier, but the walk drove him nuts. He slugged his beer and Frazier sat down next to him.
Frazier never sat down next to him.
“We need to talk, Bruce.”
“‘Bout what, John?”
Bruce Kaufman hit his beer again, wiggled the empty bottle at Brittany for another one.
He hoped it wasn’t school millage shit. He did not come to Elliot’s to talk school millages.
“You know my kid, my oldest, is a tattoo artist, right?”
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