“What, for me?” I said as she slid the glass of pure deliciousness in front of me. Her name was Kimmie. The bartender. Not the beer. The beer’s name was something that ended with the word Pilsner.

“Thirsty today, Burr?” she said to me. Kimmie smiled and I thought she was awfully cute. Which was strange, because I seemed to recall only yesterday that she sort of looked like a cross between Fidel Castro and an alpaca.

“I’m getting over a cold, need plenty of liquids,” I said.

Kimmie nodded and moved off to take the orders of a couple of newly arrived customers.
I checked my watch.

It was almost ten o’clock. I tried to remember if I had any appointments the next morning. No, I did not. And then I tried to remember if I had any appointments at all the next day. Maybe.

I looked at my glass. How could it be half gone already? Damn beer thieves, they were the worst. Probably used a long straw when I wasn’t watching.

I quickly drank the rest before the thieves returned and ordered another. This would be my last.
“Close out my tab, too, please,” I said to Kimmie.

As I was signing the bill and appreciating the beauty of the new beer, so much sexier than the old beer, my cell phone buzzed.

“This is Burr.” My name is Michael Ashland, but “Burr” was my nickname from high school, given to me by my football coach. I had been a defensive back and my coach had liked the way I attached myself to the opponent’s wide receivers.

Quite literally, the name stuck.

“Burr.” The nervous voice on the other end of the line belonged to Fred Pip, a low-budget local commercial director, and a friend from way back.