The next time Matt looked up the pub was full and his glass was empty.
“Harry. Another round.” Sometime during the late afternoon and early evening Matt had christened the bartender Harry, after the star in Harry and the Henderson’s.
The bartender shook his head. “You two have had enough.”
“Enough? You hear that Lucky? Harry here thinks we’ve had enough.”
Lucky’s forehead hit the bar with a thunk. Matt shook his shoulder. “Lucky?” His companion raised his head, tried to focus, failed, then slid off the stool landing in a heap on Matt’s feet.
“Can I get some help for my friend?”
The bartender moved across from Matt. “We’ll look after Lucky. He has a room upstairs.” He took Matt’s glass and placed it in the counter-top dishwasher. “Time for you to go.” He wasn’t smiling.
“I’m going to count to ten.” He dried his hands on a towel. Big hands, connected to trunk like arms. “When I reach ten, you’d better be gone.
“Okay, okay. I’ve obviously underestimated you.” Matt withdrew his foot from beneath Lucky and straightened himself on the stool. “I didn’t think you could count to ten.”
Harry was fast for a big man, but didn’t have to be. Before he was on the other side of the bar someone had pinned Matt’s arms behind him. The bartender and his accomplice then directed their stumbling patron unceremoniously towards the front door.
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