McTravers jabbed his thumb at the tired air around him. Suzy had served him his fourth and knew what was coming: how he’d once hitched Route 11, left Red Creek for Arizona, took a whore in every town along the way.
Two made him anecdotal, three turned him letchy. Four, argumentative. After six he was just plain mean.
‘Betcha wouldn’t dare do it again, now that you’re…’ she paused to make sure she had all the bar-flies attention, ‘so many years older?’
She knew Route 11 Northwards was closed for a reason - there were landslides, crazed animals, rumours of a murderer.
McTravers spat on hot asphalt, scanning the empty road for any sign of a ride. No bar-bitch would call him a pansy.
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