The Iron Belly
The bar was called The Rusty Anchor and it smelled like fish and gasoline and the kind of cheap perfume that women wore when they needed to smell like something they were not, which was most women in Havenport. The neon sign buzzed like a trapped insect outside, casting a sickly red glow across the sticky counter and the row of stools that had been sat on by too many men with too many problems...
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