All Bobby wanted to do was come in for a six-pack so he didn't have to go out for one. He's got his own idea of what he needs to be doing -- there's a sheaf of papers ripped out of a book to translate and send down to Cheyenne to be pieced back together, and there's his battered old copy of The Milagro Beanfield War to reread for the fifth time --
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"That is, why not ask," explains his friend, a tall, wolfish, equally sinister fellow.
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"You could ask. I don't know the answer."
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(He's looking forward to the day when he can go by Pete Coors, personally. He's done it once or twice overseas, and it hasn't gotten old yet.)
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"Glad to hear it. Anything I can get you gentlemen?"
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"Anything else I can get you?"
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"Ever had this?" adds Vandemar, holding up the wine.
"Of course he hasn't, he's still got a working liver."
"Could change that . . ."
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"You have a good night, now." And Bobby moves down the bar.
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"Good night, then."
"Bye."
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