Brighton Powell planned to lock the door once he finished sweeping the floor. He was looking forward to a full night's sleep for once. The weather looked like it was about to turn, and there wouldn't be many travelers on the road. He was debating what to pour himself for a nightcap, when he saw Vincent walk in.

He wouldn't be retiring to his little room in the back early after all. Vincent had been coming here for a few years. It wouldn't do to turn him away.

Brighton's given name was Andrew. He had changed it so that his initials matched the ones on the sign. Once, this place had been a gasoline station, but that was Before.

Years ago, when his cousin Karl was still alive, the pair had gone up to the Ruins, scavenged a truckful of tables and chairs, and turned the place into a watering hole. Brighton still sanded and stained all of them every year.

On a whim. they carried a large stack of old paintings out of a building that looked like a fortress. Now hung on the walls, they'd become something of a calling card for the Powells' place. There was something about a bit of canvas that used to be worth more than a house that seemed to amuse the roughneck clientele, particularly when some drunk put a knife through one.

They thought that folks would like the pictures of horses and mountains, the stuff they knew, but mostly they liked the silly ones. The big purple cow, for instance, or the ones that were nothing but dots and swirls.

And the girls, of course. They all liked the girls. There was one hung behind the bar, a sad looking redhead without a stitch on. Brighton called her Betty, and his patrons held her in something like reverence. Sometimes Brighton told people she had been his wife. Sometimes, they were drunk enough to believe him.

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In the beginning, Brighton had traveled far and wide to collect enough decent booze to keep the place running. He had been a great scavenger. The best. But it was just him now, and scavenging was hard work at his age. He had a couple of younger guys who found stuff for him now, and he paid well. Besides, it was the strong special brew, which he distilled himself from honey, that kept the regulars coming back now.

Bixby, which is what Karl had taken to calling himself, had been the one who was good with the customers. He had been dead five years, and everybody still asked Brighton if he knew how his cousin had done all those magic tricks. Bixby knew everybody's name. Brighton called most people "Bud."

Vincent, however, he remembered. The young man made an impression on him, because Brighton had always suspected that he was playing dumb. The kid was goofy, of that there was no doubt, but Brighton would have made a sizable bet that Vincent was far sharper than he liked to let on.

Brighton was pretty sure that this was sort of guy who always two or three steps ahead.

"Hey, Vincent," Brighton said, putting down the broom and walking behind the bar.

"Special, please," Vincent said as he sat down.

Brighton poured Vincent's drink, brought it to him, and asked him what he had been up to.

"Nothing Betty wouldn't approve of," Vincent answered, a little salute to the girl over the bar.

Brighton thought that the fresh bandage on his upper arm suggested otherwise, but didn't say anything.

"Always looking for love, though. You know that. Of course, I'm picky. It has to be the right girl, in the right place, at the right time," Vincent continued.

"And it's always the right girl, always the right place, and always the right time," replied Brighton, finishing Vincent's well-worn joke. Customers liked it when you remembered stuff like that.

Vincent eyes flashed as he raised them to meet Brighton's.

"No, Brighton. This time, I think it has to be exactly the right girl, in exactly the right place, at precisely the right time," the Roughcoat said.

Vincent took a sip of his drink, and shuddered.

"Damn, Brighton. This is diabolical. I can't believe you subject actual humans to this. Is this fun for you?"

"I'll get you something else," said Brighton, moving quickly to replace the drink. Most of Brighton's customers were the type you didn't piss off, regardless of what color coat they wore. The type of men who sported big scars but were still walking around, and who carried guns that still looked shiny and lethal.

Vincent grabbed the drink protectively.

"Are you kidding? I can get a drink that tastes good anywhere. This is Special. Keep it coming. If I remember a single thing after I walked through those doors you have failed as a man," Vincent said.

Brighton sighed on the inside. That nightcap was slipping further and further away.