Lance watched from his perch atop a stool at the Tiki Hut, a beachside bar that catered to the swimsuit clad. Lance thought the tiki theme a bit overdone, but who was he to judge? A balmy breeze blew off the Atlantic and beach babes strutted their stuff by the surf, and other normal circumstances Lance would be enjoying himself.
But tonight had a job to do. He forced himself to keep his eyes on Charlie, his partner-in-crime, seated at the opposite end of the long teak counter. Charlie paid the bartender with a crisp twenty-dollar bill, which was Lance’s signal to order a drink.
“Barkeep,” Lance called out, waving two fingers in the air, “I’ll take a Coke when you get a chance.”
