![]() ![]() ![]() Gave him an excuse to be pissed off.Ī pool table dominated much of the floor space in the bar. His driving record might have had something to do with it, but he preferred to think he was getting fucked over. He had requested a different vehicle, but the paperwork had gone into a bureaucratic black hole, and no one on that end would return his phone calls. In that time, no mechanic had been able to cure its hiccups or make the heater give more than a token effort. He’d been driving the same car out of the department fleet for more than a year. He wheeled the piece-of-shit Chevy Caprice into the small, frozen parking lot, turned off the engine, and listened to it rattle on. The thought of a late lunch shriveled and died in Kovac’s empty belly. The windows were glowing with neon advertising Miller’s and Coors and live bait. Fallon’s Bar and Bait Shop squatted nearest the road, a building not much bigger than a three-car garage, with green shingle siding and too-small windows that made the place look as if it were squinting. Andy Fallon’s brother owned a motley collection of cabins congregated on a wedge of land between the lake and a crossroads. ![]()
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