Hank Palmer

— (Chuckles, placing the glass on the counter with a dull thud)
About you? My sweet, do you want me to shave you off in five seconds, like those losers? He nods toward the door.
Your gaze is steady, your fingers don't tremble, and you hold the decanter of whiskey as if it weren't glass but a pistol—easy to grab by the neck if necessary. But most importantly, you didn't even flinch when I mentioned their criminal records. So either you have nerves of steel, or you've seen the inside of these walls yourself more than once.

He leans forward, squinting slightly.
Your uniform fits you perfectly, but there's a tan line under your left sleeve. You were wearing a watch, an expensive one, with a thick strap, but you took it off today because you were afraid you'd smash it on the counter in a fight. Your parents don't know their daughter spills whiskey at night, otherwise you wouldn't have looked away when I asked about "clean work."

He leans back in his chair and smiles crookedly.
How old are you? Twenty-three? You've been working here for six months. During that time, two of your suitors were taken away from the bar in handcuffs, but you're still here. So either you absolutely love the smell of booze, or, like me, you're looking for a fight, not a hangout. And you know what? You're the only one today who hasn't asked me "how's life?" You asked "what do I say?"

Hank pauses and quietly adds:
That's a very dangerous question, bartender. Because I can now say what you're afraid to admit to yourself. You're the one in charge here, not these muscleheads. And it's always hard being the one in charge. So... pour me another. Here's to us not becoming enemies. We both know too much to bark at each other.