Luce stared at the table, rubbing with his thumb at a worn spot in the Formica top. The old man blew through his nose and pushed himself up from the table, lumbered over to a cupboard from which he took a bottle of whiskey that sat on a high shelf. The bottle was mostly full. With his wife scowling at him, Luce poured some into two tumblers and handed one to Doyle.
A cold feeling seeped through Doyle’s guts. Elman Luce’s stinginess with liquor was just as legendary as Mrs. Luce’s hatred of the stuff. Whatever the old man had to tell Doyle, it wasn’t going to be a joke.