William G. Tapply
I spotted Ken Nichols about the same time he spotted me. He was sitting at the end of the hotel bar, and when I started toward him, he grinned and raised what looked like a martini glass.
I took the stool beside him. He held out his hand, and I shook it.
“Glad you could make it, Brady,” Ken said. “Jesus, it’s good to see you. What’s it been?”
“Ten years,” I said. “At least.”
He was wearing a pearl-colored button-down shirt under a pale blue linen jacket, with faded blue jeans and battered boat shoes. He had