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but wishing for arrogance, making do with surly and bored for now.
    “Al” he said. “You got something else for me?”
    “Yeah, hang on.” Walking to his desk, Clay opened a bottom drawer, and took out a large, thick, worn manila envelope. He gave it to Al. Al took it from the bottom, held it in the palm of his hand as if weighing it. He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head, as if giving Clay his approval, letting him know he was a little impressed.
    “So who’s Jake?” Al asked.
    “Just the name of the place when I bought it. No sense paying for a new sign when everyone knows it as Jake’s Tavern.”
    “Yeah, makes sense.” Again, the appraising nod. “See you later.” Al turned and walked out, throwing open the screen door and letting it slam back and bounce noisily on his hand truck as he pulled it out behind him. Clay watched him unlock the back of the delivery truck, put the hand cart away, then lock up tight. He started up the truck, revved the engine, and backed down the driveway from the small parking area at the rear of the tavern. Barely room enough for Clay and Brick, who closed up most evenings, and for Cheryl, who worked lunches until her kids got out of school.
    If you went to Jake’s you parked on the street, or walked from your place. It was a neighborhood joint, on Mill Street, between the train tracks and Broad Street, the main road that cut across the top of the hill overlooking Meriden. Broad Street went places, to Wallingford or Middletown, aloof from the rest of the city with its churches, big houses and the tall World War One monument that stood at the middle of the intersection, doughboy at attention night and day. Down from Broad Street ran East Main, the library and city hall a few blocks away from Jake’s Tavern on Mill Street, a cramped, bent little street that didn’t even last a quarter mile before it ran out of room at the edge of the train tracks. Jake’s anchored the street on the north end. A few stores, big houses long ago subdivided into apartments, and narrow duplexes tumbled down the hill toward the train tracks. The closer you got, the dingier and grimier the homes became, and the walk up to Jake’s was a better way to spend the evening than listening to the rumble of freight cars. For Connecticut, Meriden was a big town or a very small city, depending on your perspective. They called it the Silver City, for something not done here in decades, a richness long gone before Clay had stepped off the train, not a ten-minute walk from where he was right now.
    Clay locked the door, and sat down heavily on the ancient wooden banker’s chair by his desk. This really screwed him up. He gazed at the cases of cigarettes, knowing he should jump up and get started, but instead he sat and stared at them. He could do part of his route now, come back for the lunch crowd, then back out again and finish up. It meant a late night here, paying bills, checking the inventory, making orders. Keeping the place afloat.
    He laughed, almost out loud. The storeroom looked like a closet no one had cleaned out in a generation. His desk was an old roll top so warped and beat that it was permanently stuck in mid-roll. It looked like a mouth disgorging carbon paper, receipts, mail, tax forms, and other paperwork too depressing to think about. Empty kegs were stacked at the far end of the room, and dusty wooden shelves held cardboard boxes of glasses, cleaning supplies, snacks, and unknown things on the top shelf, their contents now long forgotten. Yeah, keep all this afloat. Who the hell would notice if it sank, remember it had even been here?
    Jake’s Tavern. He had first seen it sometime after he started at New Departure, a ball bearing plant just a few blocks up on Pratt Street. He’d kept to himself mostly, no close friends at the plant, so it was a while before anyone invited him along for a beer after work. Then Jimmy Doyle did, and with a few of his buddies they walked down to Mill Street.