“You offering to take his place, Chuck?” the man beside him at the bar had asked, and they both had a we’re-men-together guffaw. “Naw, Terrell,” said the salesman. “I don’t care for vampire leavings.” “You be polite, or you go out the door,” I said steadily. I felt warmth at my back, and I knew my boss, Sam Merlotte, was looking at them over my shoulder. “Trouble?” he asked.
