She wedged herself onto the stool between a man in a blue T-shirt and a woman with overprocessed hair. Behind the cash register and bottles of alcohol, a mirror ran the length of the bar while two bartenders pulled beers and blended drinks. Neither was the owner of this fine establishment.

“That little gal was into AC/DC, if you know what I mean,” said the man on her left, and Maddie figured he wasn’t talking about Back in Black or Highway to Hell. The guy in question was about sixty, sported a battered trucker’s hat and a beer belly the size of a pony keg. Through the mirror Maddie watched several men down the row nod, paying rapt attention to beer-belly guy.

One of the bartenders set a napkin in front of her and asked what she’d like to drink. He looked to be about nineteen, although she supposed he had to be at least twenty-one. Old enough to pour liquor within the layers of tobacco smoke and knee-deep bullshit.

“Sapphire martini. Extra dry, three olives,” she said, calculating the carbs in the olives. She pulled her purse into her lap and watched the bartender turn and reach for the good gin and vermouth.

“I told that little gal she could keep her girlfriend, so long as she brought her over once in a while,” the guy on her left added.

“Damn right!”

“That’s what I’m talking about!”

Then again, this was small-town Idaho, where things like liquor laws were sometimes overlooked and some people considered a good bullshit story a form of literature.

Maddie rolled her eyes and bit her lip to keep her comments to herself. She had a habit of saying what she thought. She didn’t necessarily consider it a bad habit, but not everyone appreciated it.