“Hoke Toliver’s hound-dog countenance was barely visible behind a cloud of cigarette smoke. He waved at a chair. “Sit down and talk.” “You know I never sit in here. Gives you the jump.” “Nice talk. I should put you on report.” “Shut up, Hoke.” He grinned, stood, hitched his pants, and lit another cigarette from a burning butt. “So why won’t you come with me?” In the past year, this had become a practiced joke. Sam sighed, not giving it a lot. “One, I don’t date men who wear crew cuts.” “I’ll gro...w my hair.” “Not by next Saturday.” “I’ll start. For you, I’ll look like a hedgehog.” “Two, I don’t see men in the program.” “You’re in AA. What do you have against alcoholics all of a sudden?” “It’s a rule. Like not sleeping around in the office, which is reason number three.” “Not in the office. In San Francisco. In the Stanford Court.” Then Hoke ran an eye around his pigsty, resting it finally on an old purple velvet sofa that a homeless copy boy had dragged in for a bed ten years previously.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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