Reflections from a Gambling House by Michael Edgerton

At 3 A.M. the bartender finally hands me a beer with a four toothed grimace and a condescending, “Here, Foster.” The problem being I don’t remember giving him my name—at least not my real name. I considered putting my pistol under his chin until he told me who was jaw-jacking—but no. Just the sleep deprivation…