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something like that.”
    She’d already pulled the tap when he remembered he didn’t have any money.
    She set the glass in front of him, cream foam spilling down the sides, said, “You just drinking, or you wanna see a menu?”
    “Food for sure,” he said, “but you’re gonna kill me.”
    The woman smiled. “Not yet. I hardly know you.”
    “I don’t have any money.”
    Her smile died. “OK, maybe you’re onto something.”
    “I can explain. You see the car wreck that happened on Main a few days ago?”
    “No.”
    “You hear about it?”
    “No.”
    “Well, there was one, just a few blocks south of here, and I was involved in it. Just got out of the hospital, in fact.”
    “So that’s where you got those pretty bruises?”
    “Right.”
    “I’m still trying to figure out what this has to do with you not paying me.”
    “I’m a federal agent.”
    “Same question.”
    “Apparently, the sheriff has my wallet and phone. Everything actually. It’s been a huge headache.”
    “So what are you, like, FBI or something?”
    “Secret Service.”
    The woman smiled, leaned toward him across the bar. It had been hard to tell in the lowlight, but in proximity she was damn good looking—a few years younger than Ethan,with model cheekbones, short-torsoed and long-legged. Had probably been a stone-cold knockout in her twenties, although thirty-four or thirty-five—whatever she was now—didn’t seem to be treating her too badly.
    “I don’t know if you’re a confidence man, and this is just a part of your game coming in here with your black suit and this crazy—”
    “I’m not lying—”
    She touched a finger to his lips. “The way I figure, you’re either exactly who you say you are, or you’re a spectacular liar. I mean, this is a good story, and I love good stories. Either way, of course I’ll let you have dinner on credit.”
    “It’s not a lie...What’s your name?”
    “Beverly.”
    “I’m Ethan.”
    She shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ethan.”
    “Beverly, as soon as I get my wallet and things tomorrow morning, I’m gonna come in here—”
    “Lemme guess...and lay a big tip on me.”
    Ethan shook his head. “Now you’re mocking me.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “If you don’t believe me, I’ll—”
    “I just met you,” she said. “By the time you’re finished with dinner, I’ll know whether or not I’ll ever see you again.”
    “Too early to say, huh?” He smiled, feeling like he might be winning her over.
    She brought him a menu, and he ordered potato wedges and a cheeseburger as rare as the health department would allow.
    When Beverly had disappeared into the kitchen with his order, he sipped his beer.
    Hmm. Something was off. It was flat, and aside from the faintest suggestion of bitterness in the finish, almost completely devoid of taste.
    He set the pint glass on the bar as Beverly returned.
    “I’m getting a free meal, so I’m hesitant to complain,” he said, “but something’s wrong with this beer.”
    “Really?” She gestured to the glass. “You mind?”
    “Go ahead.”
    She lifted the glass and took a sip, licked the foam off her upper lip as she set it back down.
    “Tastes fine to me.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah.”
    “No, it’s flat and...I don’t know...it’s just...it doesn’t have any taste.”
    “Weird. I don’t get that at all. You want to try a different beer?”
    “No, I probably shouldn’t be drinking anyway. I’ll just have a water.”
    She got him a fresh glass, squirted water over the ice.
    * * *
    He lifted a steaming-hot cheeseburger from his plate with both hands.
    Beverly was wiping down the other end of the bar when he called her over, the burger poised in front of his mouth.
    “What’s wrong?” she asked.
    “Nothing. Yet. Come here.”
    She came over, stood facing him.
    “My experience,” he said, “is that about eighty percent of the time, when I order a hamburger rare like I just did, I get one well done. I don’t