Frank Saxon’s Last Call by Eric San Juan

Met Frank Saxon in a dirty gin joint on Eleventh Avenue, the light bulbs burned out and the toilets backed up. Stink rose from the corners like steam from a manhole cover. The bartender’s name was Ted. Three times divorced, a four-day beard and a mouth that never turned upwards into a smile, Ted poured his gin and tonics without the tonic. I liked that.

I slouched next to Saxon at the bar. He tried to bum a cigarette. Asked, but I wouldn’t answer. I carry cigarettes, yeah, but Saxon’s no woman, and my smokes are only for the fairer sex. He asked again, and grunted a curse when I wouldn’t respond. Man was frustrated. He had every right to be.