I stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray and leaned back on the stool, stretching my neck a little until it cracked. Before heading to the restaurant, I figured I'd stop by Stingy Ladies and check on Eleanor. My phone showed eight. The sun had been gone for a while now, and the city had settled a long time ago. Carrie had texted earlier; the meeting was set for nine thirty.
Plenty of time.
The bar was alive when I walked in, louder than usual. Music drifted from the small stage near the back, where a three-man band was playing something slow and bluesy. The guitarist sat on a stool, fingers moving lazily across the strings, while the drummer kept a soft, steady beat. The singer's voice carried through the room, low and rough, blending with the clinking of glasses and the hum of conversations.
