He had a pot stomach, like a balloon filled with water; his face was lined, his eyes tired. There was a pout on his mouth. “You remember that time you hit me?” “I do,” I replied. “It was a sucker punch. I had no chance to defend myself.” “You asked for it, and you were looking me straight in the face.” His eyes were wet. “The Nightingales wouldn’t let you clean their bathroom, Dave.” “You’re probably right,” I said. “And don’t call me Dave.”
