If I am reading the editor's note correctly, this is intended to be the first in a series. I look forward to the next.
It's 1975 and the state of Florida has hired our narrator, Foggy, to operate Child Protective Services (for the whole state? I hope not.). And he shows up at the bar with the unprepossessing name that gives the story it's title, to tell the cook that his ex-wife in in a coma, her boyfriend is dead, and his eleven-year-old daughter is on the run.
That part of Florida had always been to me, the land of people who gave up. They piled empty cardboard boxes on the front porch, rolled the broken fridge out onto the lawn; always thought it was too hot to paint the house. And the flies didn't come in if you just put a piece of plastic over that tear in the screen. Maybe it was the heat. Even in October they could get days in the nineties.
There is stolen money, crooked cops, a wealthy Indian with nefarious plans, and a bunch of people using assorted ill-advised self-medication plans. If there is any hope for an eleven-year-old girl in this mess it is going to have to be carved out of extra-legal maneuvers and deals with assorted devils.
Fortunately, Foggy is up to the challenge.
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