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At a table near the quiet dance floor, a young hipster couple slouched, each nursing lime green drinks in tall glasses.
    A full-throated female voice said, “Well, fuck me seven ways to Sunday!” and Crowe saw Faith behind the bar, gripping a bar rag in one hand and grinning at hi with her fine white teeth. “If it ain’t goddamn Crowe, as I live and breathe.”
    She’d had a full-on Afro last time he’d seen her, big and well-coiffed, but now her hair was cut tight to the scalp and it made her look sort of like an action figure. She wore a tank top, revealing lithely-muscled light chocolate arms and a decent amount of cleavage.
    He smiled and said, “Faith. Happy New Year.”
    “Happy New Year, the man says!  Motherfucker, I haven’t seen you in, what, five years?  And now you just stroll in here like nothing and say ‘Happy New Year’. Goddamn Crowe!”
    It had been over seven years since he’d seen her, but he didn’t bother with a correction. She came around the bar, snapping her bar rag in the air, and barreled toward him as if she was going to pop him one. She threw her arms around his shoulders and hugged him with fierce strength.  She was taller than he remembered, the top of her head at eye level, and she smelled sort of intoxicating, like peppermint and rum. Up close he could see the dark cradles under her eyes, and the first traces of broken capillaries along the bridge of her nose.
    She’d always been a drinker, Faith. 
    They’d gotten the attention of the two businessmen-types. They looked up from their important deal-making and stared for a moment, but very quickly their gazes drifted to Faith’s ass, and then back to their own concerns.
    She held him out at arm’s length, looked him up and down. “Jesus, boy, you done got skinny!  Where the hell have you been?”
    He shrugged. “Traveling the world. This and that. You know.’
    “Traveling the world, right. And all your travels led you right back to where you started, huh?”
    He said, “What makes you think this is where I started?”
    That Faith didn’t know he’d been in prison told him a great deal. Chester had never mentioned it?  Or Vitower, or anybody?  So much for the irreplaceable hard-ass Crowe. She went back behind the bar, saying, “Well, if this don’t call for a drink, I don’t know what the hell does. Have one on me.”
    The three beers he’d had earlier were just about all the booze he needed for one day, but he pulled up a stool and said, “Thanks. Make it a—“
    “Wait,” she said, “Vodka gimlet, right?”
    One of the businessmen tapped his glass on the bar, and Faith slid over to refill it with scotch— always the up-and-coming young executive’s brand of poison. Smiling, she made her way back over to Crowe.
    She said, “You in town permanent?”
    He shook his head, and she nodded hers, and then the other businessman needed attention.
    Crowe sat and nursed his drink.
    This place, the Libre, was where he had his first introduction to the Old Man and his people. The Old Man didn’t own the joint, but he carried on a great deal of private business here—Sunday nights always found him in one of the Libre’s backrooms, going over weekly receipts or setting up new deals or plotting out how to screw with people in the coming week. It was also the place where Chester and Crowe hung around when they weren’t busy with other work. Home away from home.
    And Marco Vitower bought the place about a year ago. He wasn’t the sort to go changing things that didn’t need to be changed, and what better way to cement the permanency of the Libre than to own it? 
    It was a Sunday night, which meant that, New Year’s Day or not, Vitower would be here. Unless he wasn’t.
    A burst of customers showed up over the next few minutes and the next time Crowe turned around to look, the place had filled up, keeping Faith busy. When she finally made her way back over, Crowe said, “You still see Chester and the old crew