Glasser was scruffy and hard and rough-looking, like he had been chewed on and spat out by the maw of life. His shoulder-length mane of greasy black hair was tangled and wavy, framing his unkempt beard and wild dark eyes. He had a squarish frame and shoulders the size of a dumptruck, swaggering through the doorway as though his muscles didn’t fit on his bones. He tottered slightly: still just a bit hungover, though he was sober now.