* * * *
10:26 A.M.
“My name is Shane. Shane Polk.”
It was the second time I had told him who I was, which convinced me that he was groggy, unsure of his whereabouts, and not quite capable of remembering every detail of last night’s events at the Briefs Bar, with and without James Coffler.
“Do you remember your name?”
“Tommy. Tommy Rawe.”
“Nice name.” I sat by his head in a high-backed reading chair that was uncomfortable. I rarely, if ever, used it because I really didn’t like it. “Do you remember who you were with last night?”
He nodded, recapping the night’s unclear events. “I do. The guy’s name was Coffee.”
“Do you mean Coffler?”
“That’s the name. He drugged me with something, but I’m really not sure what it was. Some of my queer friends said that he does that to guys, but I didn’t believe them. They warned me, and I didn’t listen. Coffee has a reputation of drugging datable men and having his way with them.”
“Coffler,” I corrected him again.