The dimly lit bar could on the corner of 5th and Parkway could hardly be called a hopping joint. The sign outside had long eroded to the point of being unrecognizable. All that remains are the remnants of the wood-engraved letters which once read, "McVeigh's Pub."

Inside, three men sit at the unpolished bar, all fine examples of failed ventures and past mistakes, mere shadows of their past lives, once full of hope and promise. Near the back of the small establishment, a man sits against the wall, his face obscured in the shadows. The red glow of the ember of a cigarette brightens as he inhales and the smoke rises to the ceiling, dispersed by a poorly hung ceiling fan.

The bartender and owner, the aforementioned McVeigh, is cleaning a glass mug with a dirty dish rag when the door opens. The wind outside grabs the door and rocks it back on its hinges as the figure in the doorway grabs it and pulls it shut as he steps inside. He stands tall, well over 6’, and scans the room, registering, but ignoring, the three drunks to his left. His visual scan stops when he sees the man in the back, who has raised a hand in recognition and dropped his cigarette in the final drops of whiskey at the bottom of a glass.

The tall man walks to the table in the back, turns to the bartender and shows two fingers. McVeigh nods and begins pouring two whiskeys. The tall man sits down at the table and smiles as he looks into the dark corner obscuring the face of the man who sits across from him.

“Been waiting long,” asks the tall man?

The man in the corner leans back, lights another cigarette, and exhales slowly. “Not long,” he replies. “Did you get it done?”

The tall man nods. “Car’s gassed up. Put the new plates on about an hour ago.”

“Good,” the man in the dark replies as McVeigh brings over the two whiskeys. Both men give nods of recognition to the haggard barkeep and look back at one another. “Tom,” says the man in the dark corner, “I believe Detroit is our next stop.”

Tom rolls his head back and lets out a quiet sigh. “I’m getting tired of these cold northern towns. We need to go south,” he says.

The man in the dark stands, puts on his coat and finishes his whiskey in a couple of quick swallows. “Just a couple of more things to deal with,” he says. “Then we go south.”

Tom stands, puts a few dollars on the table and walks to the door, holding it open for his partner. When he stands and exits the dark corner, the man’s face is visible to the bar patrons. Scars cover most of the left side and he what was once a full head of ashen blonde hair is greyed and thin, the results of some past trauma. He walks with a limp as he approaches the door to enter the cold, blustery world.

The car is waiting outside, a 1928 Cadillac Town Sedan, hunter green. Tom opens the back door, closing it as the man hefts his weak body into the bench seat. He pulls his collar up as he hops into the driver’s seat and starts up the car. As he pulls away from McVeigh’s Pub, the owner of the establishment looks out the window and catches just a glimpse of the license plate of the car as it heads down the darkened street: NOS4A2.