“Don’t like the look or smell of the meat,” I said, pushing my plate away.

“Suit yourself. I’d be happy to take it off your hands.”

“How’d y’all do?” I inquired of the three gamblers, ignoring my brother’s advice.

They approached. The one in the middle twisted the ends of his gray moustache. “Nary an honor dealt our way,” he said. “Fate, thy will be done. Still, safer filing a complaint with the Lord than the dealer. Right, boys?” His friends nodded but said nothing.

“I bet you have some good tales, Ole Timer. There’s a drink in it, if you’ll provide such service.” 

“That is a curious request. It’s certain I got some, woeful and whatnot, though I’m hardly in a jawin’ mood.”

Little Brother slammed his boot against my shin. I stifled a cry as the men dragged three chairs over and joined us.

I called to the bartender. “A round of whiskey for these gents—and the piano player—oh, and a ’sasperilla for the little angel.” 

“Mighty genrous, mister,” said the one with the gray moustache, who introduced himself as Augur.

  “That your first name or last?” I said.

“Just Augur.”

He raked ten fingers through his long silvery hair, then rolled a baccy stick and lit it, letting the smoke curl around his lips.

“Wherebouts ya from?”

“Up north, by the quarry.”

“Ya mean that old town near the red Nanny Shop?”

“The very same.”

“Hmm. Peoples up there’s pretty poor and a round of drinks in this waterin’ hole ain’t cheap. Did ya get lucky, turn sudden beneficiary?” Auger produced a pack of playing cards from his waistcoat. “What says you to a friendly game, right now?”

“Quarry people are poor, but they’re not stupid,” I said. “We’re humble travelers of modest means, having no desire to replenish the empty pockets of unlucky gamblers. My offer is a simple transaction. A good yarn for a shot of whiskey.”

Augur stroked his chin. “Tell ya what. Buy us a bottle and I’ll supply y’all with tales into the wee hours.”

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