clinked it. "You start getting morose on me and I'll give you a head noogie."
Art knew his purpose was not to hold a wake, not tonight. "I'm stuffed full of meat and fat and alcohol and all this blood and protein is shoving a fist up my brain's ass." He chortled. "Ignore me, please. We've still got dessert-chocolate ice cream with cookie dough and stuff in it."
"Uh, maybe later," Derek said, patting his stomach. "We could take the beer and make floats. Let's repair to the War Room for cigars and brandy… if your delicate sensibilities can take it."
"How about more beer and a monster movie instead?"
"Good answer." Derek gave a thumbs-up. "But first I need to tell you what the beginning of the twenty-first century wreaked on my sorry tail."
"Yeah, what happened to you, man?"
"I was in prison in Hawaii," Derek said, fully knowing what he was starting. "I was doing time for murder."
"I met this Chinese guy named Ang, who was doing a nickel tour for smuggling. His real name was too goddamn long to keep track of and nobody could ever get it in the right order. We got into some half-assed discussion of comparative religion, and he said something that always stuck with me: 'It doesn't really matter what people believe in, although it causes some of them to do strange things in the names of gods,' he told me. 'What matters is whether I believe in people.' Well, Arthur old chap, I believe in you. You're a friend, and I owe you the story, and I'll tell it once if you comp me another beer."
"Get it yourself," said Art, grinning.
Derek's gait was loose and cowboy-ish, although it seemed to Art that cell time had pulled his friend's shoulders inward a bit. He returned with two fresh-cracked Dixie Double Hexes.
"That aluminum thing in there is the biggest goddamn refrigerator I've ever seen for a single person," he said.
"The kitchen was all Lorelle's doing." It was mostly true; she had specified the dark granite countertops, the area-specific fluorescents that delivered optically pure whites, and the stainless steel jazz that always impressed as a kind of operating theater for food. All the cutting boards were bleached-blond wood and the breakfast bar stools were some Swede's idea of ergonomic perfection in rolled, enameled metal and black leather. Sitting on them would not fatigue the back, so went the hard sell. One look at Art's kitchen would immediately leave the impression that it was a place where germs feared to tread.
"Here's to it," said Derek, and they clinked bottles again.
"Okay. How does Derek wind up in the Gray Bar Hotel?"
"I shot a guy in the lung." Derek tossed off a little eyebrow shrug that suggested he, too, still thought of it as minor and ridiculous. "You'll want to know what kind of gun. A brand-spankin'-new Sig Sauer.357 chambered for forty-caliber slugs, loaded with hardball rounds. No serial number. That got me in more shit, too, later."
"Self-defense?"
"He was banging my lady. Which the court is less interested in once they hear 'unregistered handgun' and 'concealed loaded weapon' and 'no serial number.' It'd be a felony even if the fucker hadn't've died."
Lorelle's voice drifted back to haunt Art: Have you ever actually shot anybody? In some ways he wished he could be more like Derek-a doer, instead of a talker.
"So, murder. The M-word."
"I didn't shoot to kill him, Art. I could have. You know. I had a fifteen-round magazine and I know how to aim a gun. I fired exactly once. They didn't care. He bled to death in the hospital, and I dearly hope he died in excruciating pain, or at least was conscious for some of the fall. See, when Erica and I-"
"Erica was the woman you originally took off for Hawaii with?"
Art knew, but felt like checking.
"The same. Brown hair, brown agate eyes, body like a panther- you know, the type
Art knew his purpose was not to hold a wake, not tonight. "I'm stuffed full of meat and fat and alcohol and all this blood and protein is shoving a fist up my brain's ass." He chortled. "Ignore me, please. We've still got dessert-chocolate ice cream with cookie dough and stuff in it."
"Uh, maybe later," Derek said, patting his stomach. "We could take the beer and make floats. Let's repair to the War Room for cigars and brandy… if your delicate sensibilities can take it."
"How about more beer and a monster movie instead?"
"Good answer." Derek gave a thumbs-up. "But first I need to tell you what the beginning of the twenty-first century wreaked on my sorry tail."
"Yeah, what happened to you, man?"
"I was in prison in Hawaii," Derek said, fully knowing what he was starting. "I was doing time for murder."
"I met this Chinese guy named Ang, who was doing a nickel tour for smuggling. His real name was too goddamn long to keep track of and nobody could ever get it in the right order. We got into some half-assed discussion of comparative religion, and he said something that always stuck with me: 'It doesn't really matter what people believe in, although it causes some of them to do strange things in the names of gods,' he told me. 'What matters is whether I believe in people.' Well, Arthur old chap, I believe in you. You're a friend, and I owe you the story, and I'll tell it once if you comp me another beer."
"Get it yourself," said Art, grinning.
Derek's gait was loose and cowboy-ish, although it seemed to Art that cell time had pulled his friend's shoulders inward a bit. He returned with two fresh-cracked Dixie Double Hexes.
"That aluminum thing in there is the biggest goddamn refrigerator I've ever seen for a single person," he said.
"The kitchen was all Lorelle's doing." It was mostly true; she had specified the dark granite countertops, the area-specific fluorescents that delivered optically pure whites, and the stainless steel jazz that always impressed as a kind of operating theater for food. All the cutting boards were bleached-blond wood and the breakfast bar stools were some Swede's idea of ergonomic perfection in rolled, enameled metal and black leather. Sitting on them would not fatigue the back, so went the hard sell. One look at Art's kitchen would immediately leave the impression that it was a place where germs feared to tread.
"Here's to it," said Derek, and they clinked bottles again.
"Okay. How does Derek wind up in the Gray Bar Hotel?"
"I shot a guy in the lung." Derek tossed off a little eyebrow shrug that suggested he, too, still thought of it as minor and ridiculous. "You'll want to know what kind of gun. A brand-spankin'-new Sig Sauer.357 chambered for forty-caliber slugs, loaded with hardball rounds. No serial number. That got me in more shit, too, later."
"Self-defense?"
"He was banging my lady. Which the court is less interested in once they hear 'unregistered handgun' and 'concealed loaded weapon' and 'no serial number.' It'd be a felony even if the fucker hadn't've died."
Lorelle's voice drifted back to haunt Art: Have you ever actually shot anybody? In some ways he wished he could be more like Derek-a doer, instead of a talker.
"So, murder. The M-word."
"I didn't shoot to kill him, Art. I could have. You know. I had a fifteen-round magazine and I know how to aim a gun. I fired exactly once. They didn't care. He bled to death in the hospital, and I dearly hope he died in excruciating pain, or at least was conscious for some of the fall. See, when Erica and I-"
"Erica was the woman you originally took off for Hawaii with?"
Art knew, but felt like checking.
"The same. Brown hair, brown agate eyes, body like a panther- you know, the type
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