beer on the rail and got out his cigarettes and shook one up to his lips and began to put the box away but then gestured it at Grant.
“No, thanks.”
“You quit?”
“No, just holding off a bit.”
“Ah,” said Billy. He dropped his boot down from his knee and straightened out his leg so as to snake two fingers into his jeans and said around the cigarette: “So how’s tricks, Grant? I was wondering if you were still around.”
“Still around, Billy. How’s tricks with you?”
“Holding down the old fort over there, are you?”
“Just till the landlord kicks me out.”
“Ha,” said Billy. He uncapped a silver Zippo and spun the flintwheel and lit his cigarette and shut the cap again smartly. He blew smoke in the direction of the old ranch house and said, “I hope you like it cold. A man will piss icicles of a winter morning over there. And then what happens the second he moves out? They build themselves this overheated Ramada Inn over here.” He recrossed his leg and jiggled the boot in the air. The lighter moved restlessly in his fingers, silver, then blue-violet, silver again.
“Don’t you believe it, Grant. He’s had that whole house all to himself whenever he wants. Him and his friends.”
“Used to,” said Billy.
Grant sipped his coffee.
“What is the matter with you, son?” Emmet said.
“You’re welcome to it, Billy,” Grant said. “I can make other arrangements.”
“What? Hell, I don’t want in there. I don’t want nothin to do with that place.”
Emmet shook his head and looked away. Billy drew on his cigarette and blew the smoke thinly.
“Those are good-looking boots, Billy,” Grant said.
Billy held his foot still. He aimed the pointed toe at the porch ceiling.
“I took them off a man down in Denver thought he could play nine-ball. A fool and his boots are soon—hey,” he said, looking beyond Grant, “there you are, girl. Come on over here.”
The dog lay in the shadows watching him. She looked at Grant.
“Don’t look at him, come here.” Billy pinched the cigarette in his lips and spanked his thighs and the dog rose slowly and went to him, her head low. “You don’t remember how to come when you’re called?” He took her head in his hands and shook her.
“Let up on her,” Emmet said.
“Aw, she loves it. Don’t you, Lo, don’t you, huh? We used to wrastle like goddam alligators.”
“She’s too old for that now.”
Billy stood and removed the cigarette from his lips. “Damn it, Pops. Don’t you think I know my own damn dog?”
Emmet stared at him, then looked away.
Billy picked up his beer and tipped it back, the sharp knob of his throat working until the bottle was emptied.
“All right then,” he said. “Can you loan me a few bucks, Pops?”
“What for?”
“What for. So I don’t starve. All I got is eight bucks and a check I can’t cash till Monday.”
“Why didn’t you cash it before you come up here?”
“Because I didn’t, that’s why. Now can you loan a man a couple of bucks or can’t you?”
Emmet pulled his billfold from his hip pocket and adjusted his glasses to peer inside. “All I got is a twenty.”
“That’ll do.” Billy stashed the note in his shirt pocket and looked at the dog again where she’d resettled herself on the floor next to Grant. When he stared at her the dog pinned her ears.
He began tugging at the patch of hair under his lip.
“Well, Grant,” he said. “It’s good to see you again, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Why would I mind?”
“Why would you mind?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you—?” He looked from Grant to Emmet, and back. “Because seeing you here means that that brother of mine still hasn’t found that daughter of yours, that’s why.”
Grant looked at the young man. Held his blue eyes. The first he’d known of Billy Kinney was in the mountains, in those early days when they lived in the motel—the sheriff stopping by one day to say he’d be gone for
“No, thanks.”
“You quit?”
“No, just holding off a bit.”
“Ah,” said Billy. He dropped his boot down from his knee and straightened out his leg so as to snake two fingers into his jeans and said around the cigarette: “So how’s tricks, Grant? I was wondering if you were still around.”
“Still around, Billy. How’s tricks with you?”
“Holding down the old fort over there, are you?”
“Just till the landlord kicks me out.”
“Ha,” said Billy. He uncapped a silver Zippo and spun the flintwheel and lit his cigarette and shut the cap again smartly. He blew smoke in the direction of the old ranch house and said, “I hope you like it cold. A man will piss icicles of a winter morning over there. And then what happens the second he moves out? They build themselves this overheated Ramada Inn over here.” He recrossed his leg and jiggled the boot in the air. The lighter moved restlessly in his fingers, silver, then blue-violet, silver again.
“Don’t you believe it, Grant. He’s had that whole house all to himself whenever he wants. Him and his friends.”
“Used to,” said Billy.
Grant sipped his coffee.
“What is the matter with you, son?” Emmet said.
“You’re welcome to it, Billy,” Grant said. “I can make other arrangements.”
“What? Hell, I don’t want in there. I don’t want nothin to do with that place.”
Emmet shook his head and looked away. Billy drew on his cigarette and blew the smoke thinly.
“Those are good-looking boots, Billy,” Grant said.
Billy held his foot still. He aimed the pointed toe at the porch ceiling.
“I took them off a man down in Denver thought he could play nine-ball. A fool and his boots are soon—hey,” he said, looking beyond Grant, “there you are, girl. Come on over here.”
The dog lay in the shadows watching him. She looked at Grant.
“Don’t look at him, come here.” Billy pinched the cigarette in his lips and spanked his thighs and the dog rose slowly and went to him, her head low. “You don’t remember how to come when you’re called?” He took her head in his hands and shook her.
“Let up on her,” Emmet said.
“Aw, she loves it. Don’t you, Lo, don’t you, huh? We used to wrastle like goddam alligators.”
“She’s too old for that now.”
Billy stood and removed the cigarette from his lips. “Damn it, Pops. Don’t you think I know my own damn dog?”
Emmet stared at him, then looked away.
Billy picked up his beer and tipped it back, the sharp knob of his throat working until the bottle was emptied.
“All right then,” he said. “Can you loan me a few bucks, Pops?”
“What for?”
“What for. So I don’t starve. All I got is eight bucks and a check I can’t cash till Monday.”
“Why didn’t you cash it before you come up here?”
“Because I didn’t, that’s why. Now can you loan a man a couple of bucks or can’t you?”
Emmet pulled his billfold from his hip pocket and adjusted his glasses to peer inside. “All I got is a twenty.”
“That’ll do.” Billy stashed the note in his shirt pocket and looked at the dog again where she’d resettled herself on the floor next to Grant. When he stared at her the dog pinned her ears.
He began tugging at the patch of hair under his lip.
“Well, Grant,” he said. “It’s good to see you again, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Why would I mind?”
“Why would you mind?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you—?” He looked from Grant to Emmet, and back. “Because seeing you here means that that brother of mine still hasn’t found that daughter of yours, that’s why.”
Grant looked at the young man. Held his blue eyes. The first he’d known of Billy Kinney was in the mountains, in those early days when they lived in the motel—the sheriff stopping by one day to say he’d be gone for
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