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Laurel wasted a glare at them and yanked the door back open, greeted by near-deafening music. They made a bee-line for the corner and dug packs of cigarettes from their back pockets. She stepped back as two laughing men in Sox caps exited, oblivious or uncaring that they’d nearly knocked her down. She didn’t get to finish reading the flier before the door swung open at her. Darts Night, Tuesdays, Nickel Wings from six to. Laurel took a deep breath and wrapped her fist around the door handle, not pulling yet.
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The picture window showcased beer signs and the backsides of the drinkers who were leaning on the inside sill. The sign over the door simply said “Bar”. It was one of those one-story brick buildings that could’ve easily been a real estate office or a laundromat or the sort of law firm that advertised with an 888 number. Laurel walked a couple blocks and found the address Flynn had given her, a bar with absolutely no pretense.
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The city smelled tired and beat, as though it’d spent a long day toiling in the summer sun. Her throat tightened and she knew if her nerves had kicked in before she boarded the bus she’d have never gotten this far. She was a short walk from that man, the one whose face she could only roughly conjure three days after their introduction. Until the moment her feet hit the sidewalk, ushered her out of the dry, cold fridge of the bus and into the sticky July heat, she hadn’t been nervous.
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The robot voice announced Dorchester Street and she made her way to the front, thanked the driver and exited. Laurel leaned against the window watching brick-lined blocks fly past between frequent stops. The nine bus rattled over the bridge as the sun disappeared beyond the buildings to the west.