Smelling of beer from the night before, they sat in the booth like old friends. Tats crawled up his massive arms into a wifebeater and spilled out onto his neck. Her cleavage sprouted two withered roses; she had two names inked on her neck.
“What’s your name again, cowboy?”
“Justin.”
“I’m Lucy Gallagher. What’s your line of work, Mr. Justin no-last-name?”
“Ranch work here. Roofing back in California. Those your kids names?”
“I ain’t seen ‘em since they sent me to the lockup.”
“I served five years.”
“Where to now?”
“Your place again?”
She dropped a twenty; they slid out.
“What’s your name again, cowboy?”
“Justin.”
“I’m Lucy Gallagher. What’s your line of work, Mr. Justin no-last-name?”
“Ranch work here. Roofing back in California. Those your kids names?”
“I ain’t seen ‘em since they sent me to the lockup.”
“I served five years.”
“Where to now?”
“Your place again?”
She dropped a twenty; they slid out.
