Jack Morgan could spot trouble a mile away. Gazing through the cigarette-smoke-filled haze, he knew beyond a doubt that the girl sitting at the far end of the bar spelled trouble
with capital letters.T-R-O-U-B-L-E.
Her black shirt was a little too tight, a little too low, and a little too short, revealing a pierced navel that had winked at every male she passed as she sauntered back from the rest room. Her short-cropped spiked hair was an unnaturally bright orange.
The neon light cast by the sign hanging between the shelves lined with bottles of booze glittered off her earrings. She had a...