Rogers rushed over to the bar, got him a glass of water, and helped him to drink

it.

 

When Karl was sufficiently recovered he took off his sunglasses and eyed Rogers.

“I’ve been married three times, so I can tell your uncle knew what the hell he

was talking about,” he said, grinning. “I’ve been down the aisle too,” lied

Rogers. “It was like being hit by a freight train, and she never lifted a

finger. It was all words. I would have taken Mike Tyson pounding me to a pulp

over what that woman did to me.” Rogers was not lying now. This was what Claire

Jericho had done to him.

 

Karl slowly nodded. “As God is my witness, I hear you, man.” Rogers eased back

in his chair and assumed a contrite expression. “I really needed the job, Karl.

I had nothing when I walked in here, just the clothes on my back and a couple

bucks in my pocket. Desperate men, you know. They can do anything. I overplayed

my hand. I went too far. I was trying to impress the boss.

 

I lost control.” He paused and pretended he was seated in front of the parole

board for the third time. “And so I’m sorry for what I did,” he added, his

expression one of deep embarrassment.

 

Karl slowly nodded. Then he turned and flicked a finger at the bartender and

pointed to his glass. A minute later the man delivered another whiskey and

quickly turned and left.