Frank has known him for years. They used to surf a lot together back when John owned his own restaurant in Ocean Beach. But John lost that place on aMonday Night Football bet.

Frank was there that Tuesday morning, at the Gentlemen’s Hour, when John paddled out, hungover and looking like death.

“What’s the matter with you?” Frank asked him.

“Twenty large on the Vikes to cover,” John replied. “They blew an extra point. A goddamn fucking extra point.”

“You have the money?”

“No.”

So bye-bye restaurant.

John went to work out at the Viejas casino, which was kind of like an alcoholic going to work at the Jack Daniel’s distillery. Every two weeks, he’d pull a paycheck in the red, and finally the casino canned him. John bounced from job to job until Frank got him the gig at Freddie’s.

What are you going to do, Frank thinks. A buddy is a buddy.

John makes good money at Freddie’s, but good money is never good enough for a degenerate gambler. Last time Frank heard, John was moonlighting as the late-shift manager at Hunnybear’s.

“Where’s Johnny?” he asks the sous-chef, who nods his head toward the back door.

Frank understands: The chef is out back by the Dumpster, grabbing a smoke and maybe a quick drink. You go to any Dumpster in back of any restaurant, you’re going to find a pile of butts and maybe a few of those little airline bottles of booze that the staff is too lazy to toss into the garbage.

John’s sucking at a ciggy and staring at the ground like it has an answer for something, his tall, skinny frame bent over like one of those cheap sculptures made out of clothes-hanger wire.

“How’s it going, Johnny?” Frank asks.

John looks up, startled, like he’s surprised to see Frank standing there. “Jesus, Frank, you scared me.”

Johnny’s got to be-what, mid- to late fifties, maybe? He looks older.