CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
At around 5:30, I left the office and walked to Mitchie’s. Instead of taking a table, I grabbed a seat at the bar—the best place to sit following an afternoon of talking to creditors. It all seemed quite fitting. The Nats were on, playing Atlanta, so I could watch the game while I ate. No one was paying much attention to me anyhow.
“What’s the strongest drink you make?” I asked the bartender, a man with licorice-black skin, corn rows, and an easy smile.
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