“Used to be,” said the man behind the bar drying off shot glasses, “you could tell the man by the type of drink he ordered.”

He slapped the towel he’d been using over his shoulder.

It must have been a sharp white once, like the snow before it touches the filth in the city.

But years of use had worn it down to a dull ecru color.

I could see tattered threads squiggling their way out of the stitch patterns, hanging loose in the air, waiting to be unraveled even more.

In front of me, the glass of Bombay Sapphire and tonic sat untouched.

I watched the wedge of lime loll midway between the surface and the bottom of the glass.

Every now and again, I’d use the stirrer to send it flying through the liquid and ice like it was in a zero-gravity environment.

It would bounce off one side and then head back the way it had come.

Sometimes I’m really easy to entertain.

Off in the distance, the Beatles crooned about Strawberry Fields.

I thought about how much I used to dig the Beatles.

Before they got lost in their hallucinogenic drug phase and became preachers for a kinder gentler world.

In my book, the world’s already got plenty of people who preach.

What we need is a few more deeds.

I glanced up at the bartender.

He was eyeing me.

Waiting for me to come back at him with some response.

I wasn’t really feeling talkative, but the day was dark with rain clouds pissing down the kind of drizzle that seems to seep into everywhere, even if you’ve got yourself a raincoat or an umbrella.

My mood felt about the same.

“Not anymore?”

Two words wouldn’t kill me.

He leaned against the barback and shook his head.

“Nah.

Got too many fancy drinks these days.

Damned things crop up faster than zits on a teenager.

I can’t even remember all the names.”

“I know some of them.

They sound like vacation getaways.”

“Exactly.”

He shook his head.

“Back when I was first learning how to pour, it was simple stuff.

Whiskey, bourbon, scotch, gin.

Draft beers.

Maybe a glass of wine for the ladies.

That was it.”

“You been around that long?”

He tried to grin around the burden of memories he looked like he was carrying.

“Days like this, it feels like forever.”

I knew the feeling.

Lately my own life had felt like a record that kept skipping in place over a refrain I didn’t want to sing anymore.

“Maybe you should open your own place.”

“No chance.

I’ve never had a head for business.

But I’m a damned good barkeep.

I know my trade.

And yeah, even those silly fruity drinks the kids want.

I can pour with the best of them.”

“But you long for the old days.”

He came off the rail and nodded.

“How’s that drink?”

I sipped it, tasting the way the licorice and juniper came together to form what I thought was the world’s greatest gin.

The flavors rolled over my tongue.

I caught some of the lime – tart and welcoming amid the thicker liquor.

“Damned good,” I said after the swallow.

He nodded like I just told him he was savior of mankind.

“I figured you for one of the old guys.”

“Old guys?”

“Yeah.

A man who knows how to drink a drink.

Hell, a man who knows how to order one.

You don’t try to impress.

It’s the same with the drink.

A good drink never tries to impress anyone.

It just is.

You know that the moment you sip it for the first time.

It’s got its own confidence.

Its own demeanor.”

The place was almost empty.

A booth in the back held two guys who were huddled together, probably discussing the next Internet revolution.

I noticed the expensive Burberry coats they wore.

The briefcases on the floor.

Their shoes.

Another guy lounged down near the end of the bar nursing a draft beer that looked more like a urine sample than anything else.

I figured it for one of those stupid new low-carb light beers that supposedly satisfies the craving without ever really doing so.

I grinned at the barkeep.

“Now don’t go making me out to be something I’m not.”

“I don’t have to.

You already are.”

If he’d only known.

The list of friends I’d been burying lately.

The list of enemies that seemed to grow longer with each passing minute.

The weight of a personal destiny that I sometimes couldn’t stand to shoulder.

“I just want a quick drink.”

“Nothing quick about a drink like that.

You’re doing some thinking.

I know it.

I can see it in your eyes.”

He was right.

Sitting in the airport bar waiting for my flight to leave for Japan, I figured the booze would help ease my mind some.

Maybe even take the edge off.

Fourteen-hour plane rides aren’t my usual bag.

But a trip to Japan was precisely what I needed right now.

Especially if I had any hope of continuing my work as a Fixer.

“A bartender’s wisdom?”

“I’ve seen everything, man.

You know what I mean?”

“Guess so.”

“Most people, you know they wouldn’t believe working a joint like this would grant them those all-seeing eyes.

But it does.

Somethings, well they’re easy to make out.

You can spot the guy who’s just gotten dumped.

You can spot the jilted lover or the lady who walks in on her man screwing the bejeezuz out of some take-out club slut.”

“Colorful.”

He ignored me.

“But the other things?

Sometimes they’re tougher to notice.

But they’re there anyway.

Just because the vast majority of people can’t notice the end of their nose to save their lives doesn’t mean those things don’t exist.

People who come in here – they’ve got blinders on bad.

Real bad.”

“Cellphones are the bane of society.”

“Not just them.

It’s other stuff.

Computers, advertisements, TV, movies, music.

It’s this rush world we live in that makes people unable to see the things that are right in front of them.”

“Anyone ever tell you you sound a little like that Unabomber fellow?”

He grinned but it came out…sad almost.

“I don’t want to blow anything up.

I’ve got no desire to see anyone get killed.”

“Probably a good thing.

Mankind doesn’t seem to need any more help in that regard.”

I sipped the drink and waited for him to say something.

He didn’t.

I glanced up and found him eyeballing me again.

I hefted the glass.

“Drink’s good.”

He blinked and walked away from me.

Good old Lawson the conversation killer.

Chalk another one up on the list of people who think I suck in a royal way.

I took another sip of gin and listened as the Beatles mercifully finished whining and Rush took over the lead with “Red Alert.”

The bartender must have had it tuned to WZLX, which was Boston’s classic rock station and the only one that would have paired two unlikely bands like that.

I didn’t mind much, though since I happened to dig Rush.

They were one of the bands I’d only recently started appreciating.

My foot started tapping in time to the beat.

I took another sip, listened to a clap of thunder break out somewhere above my head, and saw the windows melt under a fresh assault of withering rain.

Great day for a flight.

My timing had sucked lately and it just didn’t seem to be getting any better.

Getting back from New York, I’d found myself in the dumps.

I’m not usually much on self-pity, but I could tell I was worn out.

Fighting the Syndicate and trying to figure out who was still out there pulling the strings to some of the most insidious corruption I’d ever stumbled across, had exhausted me beyond what a couple of beers and a Patriots football game could cure.

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