As the Buncle brothers would say, Wit would make an alcoholic want to get into rehab, the way he was drinking tonight. Wit was pounding shot after shot of Rusted Whiskey to the point where I only had one bottle left in my pantry.

“I’m cutting you off sir,” I said.

“Wit, call me Wit,” Wit said his face resting between the joint in his arm.

“Wit, I’m cutting you off,” I was wiping the bar. Lloyd Finksmeyer told me that the bar was an antique wood that was only available in Crisp Crick 250 years ago. I didn’t care, the surface was still solid and was great for sliding Los Manhattans across without spilling a single drop of the sweet brew.

Tizzy Moone got off stage as she had finished her set about an hour ago, she was reminiscing with Luts Rosenoffer, her piano player, about the night’s performance. She walked right on by Wit and gently brushed a hand across his back as she exited the bar. Wit only casually saw her wink as she passed by.

“Barkeep,” Wit said turning back to me. “Can you keep a secret?”