Frank groaned as he knocked back another glass of whiskey, the spirit burning his throat. The ice rattled in the glass, clinking as he slammed it down on the bar.

Frank smacked the top of the wood once, then vaguely gestured to his glass. Another.

He didn’t know how much he’d drank, how much he’d spent. Frank didn’t care enough to find out: he was here to wallow and not care for anything beyond the bottom of his glass.

His glass was filled again, Frank sighed. He had a lot of excuses to be here; a long day at work, the misery of his life weighing on him heavier tonight.

The door behind him creaked open and shut, Frank didn’t look up. Probably just a regular here to drown like he was.

To the detective’s surprise, however, the presence of someone beside him wasn’t a fellow middle-aged wash up. It was a new member of the Pacific Bag Police Department.

Frank glanced over, then back down at his glass. He took a short swig, then gave a ragged sigh, “Andrea send you?” He asked gruffly, a little hoarse from disuse. “Tell her I’m off the clock. It’s past 6.”