All the Sires of Generations: Flash Fiction
“That’s too bad. How you figure,” Arbuthnot asked McCoy, “if I put it out…if you get around, I mean, and put it out under my name… Tell ’em the professor, that’s what I hear they been calling me—” Arbuthnot stopped here, and chuckled. “A man looking for a bird.”
McCoy, deeply sun-seasoned, perhaps thirty-five—wiry, narrow of skull; well-proportioned though scaled small—had not so far found any of Arbuthnot’s digressions worth a laugh in reply. He looked pained and squinted through the window.
The Never Ask interior, its hurricane shutters thrown back, its unglassed sashes open to the shade of a cypress, had only this light. A car battery sat on the floor, making the fan go.
Arbuthnot met the eye of the bartender. “Yeah, take another,” he murmured. The bartender leaned, uncapping bottles as he handed each across the sill. Arbuthnot and McCoy sat on the porch, their bench under the tin roof fanned by a slight breeze, just tolerably cooler than a stool indoors.