He might have been a lead character in an airport novel. His jaw was granite hard and stubbled, his t-shirt tight across wide shoulders and chest. If he sensed injustice, his flint-blue eyes would flash fire, his biceps tighten and, as his fists clenched, the scars on his knuckles would whiten. He looked up at the clock.
Two men the size and shape of tapered wardrobes walked slowly into the bar. They stopped. One smiled. “Hello Fluffy.”