Charlie found his old stool at the bar, luckily, since the place was crowded, and waited until Stan could serve him. He made a face at the clamour coming from the sound system; some indecipherable snarling, accompanied by an iron guitar and an acid head drummer.

"Charlie, didn't expect to see you. Things looking up?"

"When you're on the floor everything looks up. Double scotch, please."

"Miss another bus?" He slid a glass into the waiting hand.

"Got run over, actually." He sipped the liquor and licked his lips. "It was a mistake going back. Too much damage for any repairs."

"Sorry to hear that, man. What now?"

"Good question." He drained the glass and pushed it toward Stan.

"Hope we aren't going the cab or coffee route again."

"Until my money's no good, my friend."

"How about a sandwich to go with it?" Stan set the fresh drink in front of him.

"If you promise to find some decent music on that thing." Charlie indicated the speaker with his head.

"What do you like?"

"Fifties. Songs then were still poetry to music mostly, with melodies you could hum or whistle."

"How did you hear those at your age?"

"My grandparents had a huge collection." He suddenly stopped and rubbed his chin. And you couldn't be bothered even going to the funeral.

"I might find something online. It's for this crowd, the more noise the better it seems. Lemme get that sandwich first."

Charlie moved to the end of the bar when he saw a patron leave, making room as more people drifted in, and the chatter drowned out the chance of hearing almost anything.

"Bigger crowd than last time I was in." He accepted another drink and finished the sandwich Stan provided.

"Pre-game crowd. They like to get mellow before going."

"Game?"

"Baseball. Yankees are in town. They always draw well." Stan made some quick refills down the bar, then returned and leaned on the corner. "So, have you got any plans for moving on?"

"Nope. I'm like those fifties songs, I see you couldn't find," he smiled wryly. "Passé. I tossed away what most guys would give a right arm for."

"Did you see her?"

"Yeah. Not a good outcome." He swirled the liquid in the glass. "I'd trade everything I had for a do-over."

Stan moved back down the bar and tended to some new requests as the crowd began to get ready to leave. He had some fun exchanges with the fans that were making loud bets about who would win the game. Then thanked them loudly as they piled out the door.

"I envy you, Stan. Steady job, lot's of friendly customers."

"Pays the bills. I wanted to be a piano player in a jazz group."

"Really? You play?"

"Just for myself now – a lot of the music from the era you like." He grinned and snapped his towel toward Charlie. "Misty. Blue Monk. You know them?"

"The names. I liked Desafinado by Stan Getz."

"Ah, yes, Getz . The Sound."

A couple came in and took a booth. Stan moved down the bar and called over to them, listening to their order. Charlie watched them. The touching of hands, the smiles, the musical tinkle of the woman's laughter.

Face it, Croft, you were just one dishonest lounge lizard. The marriage to Angie was a misstep in a lifetime of supercilious stumbles. The woman laughed again out loud, and when Charlie looked over, the man had joined her on her side of the booth, and as he watched, they kissed. "The Platters said it all, fella," Charlie muttered, "Only You. Wish I'd listened to those lyrics."

He sat up and drained his glass, considering another, and what Stan might say about that, after all, he did have a sandwich.