Inside the pub the only thing updated in twelve years were the neon brewery signs. The place was empty except for an old man at the bar nursing a beer and playing crib with the bartender, three unemployables sharing a pitcher at a table, and a morbidly obese loner practicing his bank shot, the crack of his ass showing every time he bent over to line up his cue.
“Well if it ain’t Matthew Bennett, famous foreign correspondent.”
Matt recognized the waitress. “Rhonda Parker.” Raunchy Rhonda hadn’t changed much, a little older, fatter, and saggier. The smell of stale air and spilled beer was overpowered by her perfume.
“Rhonda Jarvie. I married Mike.”
“Really? How’s Mike?” Matt tried to put a face to the name and failed.
“No, idea. He lives in the city. We’ve been divorced for eight years.” Rhonda gave her shoulder-length, two-tone hair a flip. “Hey, sorry to hear about your Dad.” She placed a hand on his arm. “He’ll probably show up. Not the first time he’s disappeared.”
Matt looked at the hand, weighted with bling, then at his former schoolmate.
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