Across the bar Woody Hanks tugged on his stubbly gray beard and gaped at us through wire-rimmed granny glasses. He slid a mustard-stained menu in my direction and retreated to the far end of the bar, where he busied himself polishing beer mugs, stealing glances at Sid and chatting with a drunken workman in a hardhat. I pushed a clump of wet bangs out of my eyes and scanned the menu. I heard on the radio this is the rainiest fall Black Bay has had in fifty years. Sid emitted one last perfectly round ring of smoke and watched it float away.
Monsoon is right.
I told him no onions. Looks like a bunch of bloody worms. I glanced at her growing mound of ash-coated red onions and shoved my menu aside. I waved to get Woody's attention and ordered a Diet Coke, figuring I would fix myself something to eat later, at home. She slid her Budweiser toward me.