Last Man To Die (2)
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“You got a nice voice, but how come you’re showing me a photo of some dead GI?”

“Because I like to show folks the last picture taken of me,” said Rosario, who was on his fifth beer at six in the evening. “It’s like showing people your graduation picture, or maybe a photo of your fiancé.”

“If that’s your idea of a joke…”

Fiona’s pout reminded Rosario of a sweet girlfriend he’d had in high school. He was in a tavern he’d never been in on Chicago’s south side. Somehow his feet had taken him there once he’d left the boarding house. He liked the jukebox and red vinyl seat cushions, the steaming plates of burgers and onion rings, and the redhead who was seated near the end of the bar.


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