They’d pull in by the dozens, drink and laugh and listen to oldies on the jukebox. It was a thing they all did, like playing golf or going bowling. It was very popular with the bikers-the middle-aged firemen and postal workers who liked to toodle around in the sunshine on their vintage Harleys. Still, the Purple Pup managed to do well on the weekends when the weather was good. As a consequence, Meriden was not considered a good place to own and operate a small business. Residents of the neighboring towns knew to steer clear of Meriden whenever more than a quarter-inch of rain fell. Meriden wasn’t known for anything except the inadequacy of its storm drains. Middletown was known for Wesleyan University and for the big mental hospital that was there, Connecticut Valley Hospital. The Purple Pup was a scruffy roadhouse next to Kwik Lube on Highway 66-just west of Middletown on the way to Meriden. Stan’s type belonged in a country club in Farmington.

Because she didn’t see his type around the Pup too often. Torry, who was not good with ages, figured he was somewhere around fifty.

Tall and trimly built, with nice Ralph Lauren clothes. And pretty good-looking for an older guy, too. He said “thank you” when Torry brought him his draft beer-Beck’s, which was a dollar more than Miller. Not that he seemed like the kind of guy who ever hung out with the kind of guys who hung out at the Purple Pup. His eyes kept flicking around the bar as if he were afraid someone might recognize him. There was something about the way it seemed to catch in his throat the first time he said it. He called himself Stan, although Torry was pretty sure that Stan wasn’t his real name.

The Cold Blue Blood by David Handler