Mary led Falcon to two rickety stools at the far end of the bar, away from the front window with its flickering beer signs. The bartender, a mountain of muscle with a face that looked like a boiled red fist, apparently knew Mary. He greeted her with a warm smile—or his best approximation of same—and brought them each a halfliter of beer. He then lumbered down to the other end of the bar, and continued his task of using a gray rag to redistribute the grime on the counter top.