“One more,” says the shadowed man, and he downs his drink like a lightning bolt to the brain, slams the glass on the bar and stares. The barman doesn’t say a word, because he knows the look and knows the white knuckled grip lost men have around bar glasses like lifesavers in stormy seas. “One more,” the shadowed man repeats, and repeats again, and still the barman says nothing but holds the bottl…