I was minding my own business in Leroy's joint, savoring a Jack and Coke and listening to the low drone of a jukebox that knew a million songs, every one of them the blues. I hadn't bothered to take my hat off when I came in. Leroy didn't care, anyway--he just stood behind the bar as always, polishing the same goddamn glass with the same goddamn rag, just like every other bartender in every other city in the whole world. Must be something in their contracts about it, or maybe it's some kind of Jungian racial memory that makes 'em do it. How should I know? I'm just a stiff. All I need to understand is that Leroy's is a place where a man can have some time to himself to reflect. Given, the reflection tends to come from inside a pint glass, but I don't begrudge anyone their philosophy.

Philosophical disagreements tend to end in rearranged faces, joints like Leroy's, so everyone pretty much leaves everyone else alone. Except, of course, for one lady in particular...

As the 'box started in on its fifteenth song of the night (I keep track with hash marks on a napkin for kicks), she walked in, acting like she owned the place. Tough as nails doesn't even begin to describe her. More like diamonds--they glitter, just like she does.

I knew what she came for, but I wanted her to say it. Deadline was a no-nonsense kinda girl, as indicated by the presence of three heavies in leathers and caps that followed her in. She took a seat next to me at the bar. I tipped my hat back with a flick of a finger and gave her a sidelong glance as I took another sip of my drink. There was a long, heavy silence. The jukebox switched songs, and I scratched another mark down on my napkin.

"Hey, lowlife," she said to me, sounding just a little like a peeved Katherine Hepburn. "Write me a newspost."

And so I did.

~fin~