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I saunter through the door of the dingy dive bar to the faded hum of Lynyrd Skynyrd's “Free Bird” drifting through the speakers. Yellowed beer-ad posters and ancient records cover the varnished paneled walls, and years of dirt and spilled beer have darkened the scuffed wood floors to a tarry patchwork. Gives the place a worn-out, faded feel.

We have our ambiance. And now . . .

“Hey, Jax, what’s up, man?” The grizzled older gentleman nods from his usual table along the wall midway into the room, the one tucked beneath the crossed lumberjack axes.

. . . The time-weathered regulars.

Mix ’em together, and we’re rocking a borderline-macabre everyone-here’s-an-alcoholic vibe, ya know? Not really my style—a classy-ass guy like me loves a chic cocktail lounge.

I give the brim of my favorite black ball cap a light tug. “Tommy.”

Who’m I kidding? I love this bar, if for no other reason than its collection of terrifically interesting regulars. When you’re in my line of work, you go where the interesting people go.

Like Tommy. He hunches against the scuffed wood paneling as he lifts his glass, nearly drowning his long grey beard in a half-drunk pint of ale.

Definitely falls into the category of terrifically interesting people—and useful, thanks to his uncanny ability to keep an ear to the ground.

Dude has seen some serious shit, on both sides of a prison cell. Got the scars to prove it too. Looking at the lacerations up and down his arms, you’d almost think he’d done some dabbling in dark magic, except that nobody does that shit this side of the Rocky Mountains.

Regardless, my man has some of the most fascinating stories I’ve ever heard—and I’m from the West side of the Rockies, where shit’s pretty fascinating.

You make connections when you’ve lived a life with that many stories. I should know.

“Haven’t seen you in a hot minute.” Tommy slugs down half his glass, wipes beer from his mustache with the back of his hand. “Where you been?”

“Busy. Work.” I lean over to snag a gulp from his pint. “O’Doul’s, man, really? Dunno how you drink that shit.”

He gives me the stink-eye, snags the glass away. But beneath the ‘stache fluff, his mouth twitches like he’s holding in a laugh. “Fuck off, kid.”

“C’mon, Thomas, you know you wanna see a card trick.” I toss him a grin, already halfway to my feet; he’s not falling for one of my tricks again.

“You know I don’t,” he says, deepening his stink-eye.

“Fine, fine. I’ll give you a break today.” I chuckle as I depart his table. If Tommy ain’t gonna play, I’ll find somebody who will, ’cause I’m restless as a hummingbird on a nectar binge unless I’m hustling or throwing cards. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

He snorts. “Yeah, right.”

“Soon as a non-reg walks into this bar, it’s Magic Show City,” I promise. Magic Show City, you know, minus any actual magic. One of the perks of making a home in these lovely United States—none of the genuine hocus pocus. Mostly.

At least, it ain’t like West America, the magic-riddled country where I cut my teeth on a life of crime.

I continue my journey through the bar to the counter, ’cause there’s a whole lotta interesting folks lingering in the lurch there. “’Sup, brothers?”

The two men seated at the far left turn to face me. Moses first, then his brother Larry beside him, both of them slumped over pint glasses beneath a massive bear’s head pinned to the wall.

“Hey, Jax.” Moses nods. Larry gives me a smile that lilts toward grimace. They’re both almost as large and rounded as the bear was, with equally bearish features—long noses, hairy faces, giant paws of hands, the whole shebang.

“Been here a while?” I pat Moses on the shoulder, offer Larry a handshake. I already know the answer.

“Since work got out,” Larry tells his beer. They’re nice guys, but very sad drunks, and I reckon most of their meat-packing money winds up in this bar. We can’t all be legendary criminals, I guess. Sometimes, you’re just a working-class schmuck, living out the hours until the clock ticks down and you can forget yourself in a glass. It’s the kind of life that’d kill me.

I resist the sudden urge to reach for my cards, my fingers nearly aching with the need.

“You staying a while?” Moses asks, and I lift a shoulder in a shrug.