Then stopped.
Thirty faces turned toward her.
She suddenly became aware of everything about herself.
The worn jacket.
The cheap canvas bag.
The fading bruise beside her eye she had failed to cover completely.
The fact that she had not slept properly in days.
A large man sitting in the center of the bar turned slowly on his stool.
He appeared to be in his late fifties.
Gray threaded through a thick beard.
His arms were covered in old tattoos, some faded nearly blue.
A long scar ran from below his left ear toward his collar.
A patch on his vest identified him as president.
He looked at Samantha for several seconds.
“You lost, sweetheart?”
His voice sounded like gravel moving inside a steel drum.
“Church choir is three blocks down.”
Several men laughed.
Samantha closed the door behind herself.
Her legs wanted to turn around.
She forced them forward.
“I’m looking for whoever runs this place.”
The big man lifted one eyebrow.
“That would depend what you’re selling.”
“I’m not selling anything.”
She pointed toward the door.
“Your sign says bartender wanted.”
A man near the pool table laughed.
“Grizz, she can read. Already overqualified.”
More laughter.
The president raised one hand.
Silence returned immediately.
He studied Samantha again.