The convention's coming up and we're gonna be busy as hell. The governor's supposed to be here with some Colombian big shots."
"How do you know all this?"
"Christ, don't you read the papers? They've been talking about it for a while now. And get this," he turned his chin to my shoulder. "Rumor has it they're here to negotiate some big deal between Colombia, Florida, and the feds. Something to do with drug traffic coming into Miami."
"Well, I wish them luck. They've been trying to stop that shit coming into Miami for years. I don't know if it will ever happen."
The conversation changed to small talk. The hours passed and beers flowed. By two o'clock, only a few customers remained. We were both feeling the brew. With a Marlins mug in hand, John suddenly rotated his stool and faced me, eyes puffy and moist.
"Jimmy, what the hell are you doing here? I don't mean here in this joint. I mean here, doing what you're doing."
"What do you mean?"
"There's something about you, I can tell. I'm not stupid. You don't belong here. You're different. And let me tell you, I'm not the only one who thinks so."
"Different? How am I different? What are you talking about, John?"
"I mean, just the way you act. It's not like everybody else."
"Not like everybody else! How do I act different?"
"I don't know, Jimmy, you seem more polite or proper or something. Sometimes I feel like I should be waiting on you instead of working with you."
"Well, I tell you what, John. The next time we work together, you can set up my bar for me, okay?" We both laughed. "I'm just doing my job, working like everybody else."
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish