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Fred Ruskin sat alone on the second-hand brown suede couch that occupied most of the floor space in the living room of his little two-room apartment, trying to sober up. Downing another cup of black coffee, he couldn’t believe the audacity he’d shown at the tavern just three hours earlier. He felt like such an ass. Candy’s job was a thankless one, and he’d made it even worse by doing what he did. He hoped that she at least wouldn’t begrudge the tip he had left for her.