The jukebox came on suddenly, and Emery saw heads turn to it all over the bar. The faces looked thoughtful, confused, but not annoyed, so he continued to dry the glass in his hand and didn’t move toward the control panel.
It was a smallish crowd tonight — the regulars gathered at the bar, drinking beer and watching back and forth between the two games he had on the TVs, the Islanders game on the left and the LSU game on the right. There were a few people in the booths, one couple at a table, and four more people playing a game of pool.
The door opened with a bang, letting in a swirl of freezing air and provoking cries of protest from all around the bar. The figure who had come in wrestled against the wind until he had it closed again, stomping over to the bar with melting snow dripping from the end of his long scarf, his boots leaving small puddles in their wake.
“Hey,” Emery said, setting his glass aside. “Nasty out, isn’t it?”
