Relaxed and mellow, Scott listened to a sidewalk band belt out Count Basie’s “One O’Clock Jump” while another melancholy hoot from a tugboat drifted up from the river.
Scott glanced at his fishing buddy. “My favorite — Count Basie.”
Greg gave him a perplexed look. “You mean the vampire guy?”
“Exactly,” Dalton said with a grin. “How’s the rehab going?”
“Better than I figured,” Greg said enthusiastically. “Two more weeks and I’m going to be wetting a line in the Gulf of Mexico.”
A small, thin man sitting alone at the bar swallowed an oyster and darted a glance at the wall mirror. He was looking straight into the faces of Maritza Gunzelman and Scott Dalton. Downing another raw oyster, the man with the long white hair and thick white beard carefully wiped his hands on an oversized cloth napkin. He adjusted his sunglasses, then tossed some money on the cluttered bar and donned his French beret. Khaliq Farkas smiled inwardly and walked out of the restaurant.