”
“Leaping for another cliché?”
“Or jumping to conclusions: you better believe it. With both bare feet. But I’m looking around close and hard as I come down.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you would be. Want some coffee?”
“Only if you hold a gun on me. I was up all night working, already had nine, ten cups.”
“A drink, then?”
“Wouldn’t mind. Only had five or six of those.”
So we went in and I rinsed two of the glasses on the counter by the sink and poured Scotch into them. We sat at the kitchen table. In the South that’s where all the best talking gets done. I put the bottle between us on the table and asked Hosie what he knew.
“Well. I never had one doubt that you’d be going after this person, of course. Couldn’t tell, though, whether it would be right away, or later. I already knew from something Frankie told me, once I put it together with a couple other things I’d caught here and there on the streets, that this young patrolman, guy named Walsh, had the same gleam in his eye. So last night when both your names come up in conversation—after I call from the paper to inquire the nature and extent of your injuries—I pretty much know what’s happened. I just don’t have any particulars. And in my line of work, particulars are the only things worth having.”
He settled back with his glass resting on one leg, an actor who had delivered his lines and now could coast.
“I’m afraid that’s about as particular as it gets,” I told him. “We don’t know who the shooter is, don’t know anything about him, really. Walsh was dogging the places shootings had occurred. He kept seeing this guy. Knew him from the way he walked. I was chasing shadows too, and one of the shadows jumped up to become a guy holding a gun on Walsh.”
Hosie had a sip of Scotch. “I don’t know whether to call that incredible luck, or astonishing stupidity.”
“You got me. Wrong place, right time?”
He grunted. “So that was it, huh? Your wad’s shot. Blank slate, start all over again, same as before.”
“Yeah. Except now he knows we’re out here, of course.”
“So he’ll be harder to find.… He doesn’t know who you are, right? Either of you?”
“We don’t think he does.”
Hosie stared at the tabletop while I looked out the window at squirrels chasing one another across power lines. When I found my glass empty, I refilled both.
“That’s good,” he said. I never knew if he meant the refill or the shooter’s not knowing who we were. Because just then the door opened and we both looked toward it.
“Lew. You okay? I went straight home once I heard what happened. Thought you’d be there.”
“I was.”
“You ever give any thought to maybe leaving a note, let someone know you’re all right?”
I stood and hugged her. She felt wonderful, smelled wonderful, the way she always did. She was wearing a short blue dress, shiny and satinlike, with red heels (pumps, she called them) and huge red earrings.
“Hosie, this is LaVerne.”
“It sure is.”
“Verne: Hosie Straughter. He’s—”
“I know.” She held out her hand. “Truly a pleasure, Mr. Straughter. I’ve enjoyed your writing over the years, and learned so much from it.”
“Lewis,” he said, cupping their joined hands with his free one. “This is not what one would call a fine Scotch. In fact, more discerning drinkers might be disinclined to call it a Scotch at all. And your attire, this horrid black suit gone slick at the knees, with its uneven cuffs: also questionable. But, be all that as it may, I am forced to admit that your taste in friends is … exemplary. Unassailable. Absolutely. The pleasure, young lady,” he said, lowering his head, “is entirely mine, believe me.”
He picked up his glass and drank off the couple of inches I’d just poured. “And with that simple, heartfelt toast, I’ll leave you two young people to whatever it is that young people do these days.”
Over my protests he left, and we
“Leaping for another cliché?”
“Or jumping to conclusions: you better believe it. With both bare feet. But I’m looking around close and hard as I come down.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you would be. Want some coffee?”
“Only if you hold a gun on me. I was up all night working, already had nine, ten cups.”
“A drink, then?”
“Wouldn’t mind. Only had five or six of those.”
So we went in and I rinsed two of the glasses on the counter by the sink and poured Scotch into them. We sat at the kitchen table. In the South that’s where all the best talking gets done. I put the bottle between us on the table and asked Hosie what he knew.
“Well. I never had one doubt that you’d be going after this person, of course. Couldn’t tell, though, whether it would be right away, or later. I already knew from something Frankie told me, once I put it together with a couple other things I’d caught here and there on the streets, that this young patrolman, guy named Walsh, had the same gleam in his eye. So last night when both your names come up in conversation—after I call from the paper to inquire the nature and extent of your injuries—I pretty much know what’s happened. I just don’t have any particulars. And in my line of work, particulars are the only things worth having.”
He settled back with his glass resting on one leg, an actor who had delivered his lines and now could coast.
“I’m afraid that’s about as particular as it gets,” I told him. “We don’t know who the shooter is, don’t know anything about him, really. Walsh was dogging the places shootings had occurred. He kept seeing this guy. Knew him from the way he walked. I was chasing shadows too, and one of the shadows jumped up to become a guy holding a gun on Walsh.”
Hosie had a sip of Scotch. “I don’t know whether to call that incredible luck, or astonishing stupidity.”
“You got me. Wrong place, right time?”
He grunted. “So that was it, huh? Your wad’s shot. Blank slate, start all over again, same as before.”
“Yeah. Except now he knows we’re out here, of course.”
“So he’ll be harder to find.… He doesn’t know who you are, right? Either of you?”
“We don’t think he does.”
Hosie stared at the tabletop while I looked out the window at squirrels chasing one another across power lines. When I found my glass empty, I refilled both.
“That’s good,” he said. I never knew if he meant the refill or the shooter’s not knowing who we were. Because just then the door opened and we both looked toward it.
“Lew. You okay? I went straight home once I heard what happened. Thought you’d be there.”
“I was.”
“You ever give any thought to maybe leaving a note, let someone know you’re all right?”
I stood and hugged her. She felt wonderful, smelled wonderful, the way she always did. She was wearing a short blue dress, shiny and satinlike, with red heels (pumps, she called them) and huge red earrings.
“Hosie, this is LaVerne.”
“It sure is.”
“Verne: Hosie Straughter. He’s—”
“I know.” She held out her hand. “Truly a pleasure, Mr. Straughter. I’ve enjoyed your writing over the years, and learned so much from it.”
“Lewis,” he said, cupping their joined hands with his free one. “This is not what one would call a fine Scotch. In fact, more discerning drinkers might be disinclined to call it a Scotch at all. And your attire, this horrid black suit gone slick at the knees, with its uneven cuffs: also questionable. But, be all that as it may, I am forced to admit that your taste in friends is … exemplary. Unassailable. Absolutely. The pleasure, young lady,” he said, lowering his head, “is entirely mine, believe me.”
He picked up his glass and drank off the couple of inches I’d just poured. “And with that simple, heartfelt toast, I’ll leave you two young people to whatever it is that young people do these days.”
Over my protests he left, and we
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