returning the favor.

 

Around ten, Puller’s gaze shifted to the front door when a group came in led by

a tall young man dressed in what looked to Puller to be a suit that maybe cost

more than his Army-issued Malibu, kicking in the government discount. He and his

group walked past a security guard and up the stairs. They passed through

another door and it closed behind them. The security guard moved his bulk back

in front of the staircase.

 

Puller assumed that no one else was going to be allowed up.

 

A good-looking woman passed in front of his field of vision. She was dressed

professionally, unlike most of the other women here, and seemed closer to

Puller’s age than the rest of the clientele. He watched as she had a word with

one of the bartenders and then went over and checked the till. Owner or manager

or both, thought Puller.

 

He checked the woman he was following. She was still lip-locked in the corner.

 

He walked over to the bar where the woman was just closing up the cash register.

“Looks like you got a gold mine here,” he said.

 

She stared up at him and smiled. Then she saw his empty hands. “But you’re not

contributing to the gold,” she said. “Won’t you have a drink?” “Sure. I can get

it from the bartender.” “No, I’ll pour it for you. On the house.” “Not much gold