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The Skin Trade

THE SKIN TRADE

Carl Hanson nursed his whiskey and soda at the hotel bar. He observed the man reflected in the polished wood under his elbows, his free hand unsure whether to smooth the streak of gray hair resting near his temple or hide it. Carl grimaced, sharpening all the little lines in his face he was learning to hate. The smooth, hungry faces of the others he’d met at the conference leered through his memory.

Young Turks as far as the eye can see. Probably snickering behind my back as soon as I got off stage. Or just planning how to gun for me. Well, I may be getting a little gray and overweight, but I’m not dead yet, kiddies.

Carl downed the rest of his drink. Setting the glass down, his eyebrows raised when the bartender gave him a refill without prompting.

The young man looked at Carl over his shoulder while returning the bottle to its spot on the shelf. White teeth flashed a conspiratorial smile in his tan face.

“Courtesy of the lady at the end of the bar, sir.”

Carl lea
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