you ever gonna see?’”
He turned back to Mike, who was tightening the foil over the platter of chicken. “Damn, Jesse. That’s about the saddest thing I ever heard.”
Jesse went to the refrigerator, grabbed a hunk of cheese. “It ain’t the worst thing. The bastard was right. There’s always another worst thing you’re gonna see.” He pulled a knife from a drawer, sat at the table. With a smooth stroke of the blade, he cut a slice of cheese and slid it into his mouth. He shook his head. “You got any crackers?”
Mike got some saltines from the cabinet.
Jesse cut another slice of cheese. “Zeke was all set to move those guns from that pawnshop. And we boost a truck out of gas. We don’t have shit but a fake hundred-dollar bill.” Jesse put the cheese down. “This ain’t real cheese. I can’t eat this.” He sat back, rubbed his belly. “I need something, man, something solid, something easy.”
“Want me to make you a fried-egg sandwich?”
“Yeah, man. That’d be cool. Thanks.”
Good , Mike thought. He’s settling down . He’d never seen a man shift moods as fast as Jesse. You never knew what could set him off, and sometimes it took the simplest thing to calm him back down.
Mike put a skillet on the stove, scooped in some bacon fat, reached into the refrigerator for an egg. He felt Jesse watching him. “You want this on plain bread or toast?”
“Toast. No butter. Just toast.” Jesse’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked. His mother. He clicked the phone off. There’d be hell to pay for this. She would yell, then cry, then give him more jobs to do around the house. Her car would be off limits for a while. He watched Mike leaning over the frying pan, studying the sizzling egg. Zeke cooked like that, studied whatever he cooked in a pot, kept leaning over it, smelling it, stirring it. Made the best fried trout Jesse’d ever had. Mike was tenderly flipping the egg. Jesse watched him. “You do that like Zeke, man. The man loves his food.”
“Did you call him yet?”
“Yeah. While you were making sure your granny was in bed, I called him, said we didn’t do the job.”
Mike put a piece of toast on the plate, slipped the fried egg onto it. “He pissed?”
Jesse shrugged. “And lay that top piece of toast on real gentle. I don’t want it all mashed down.” He watched to make sure Mike did it right. “Nah, he wasn’t pissed. He’s too cool to get pissed. He did thisrepo once. A man tries to sic his dog on him, big fucking Doberman, Zeke just turns real calm to the back of his truck, pulls out a chain. The dog just studies him. And Zeke, man, he ain’t scared of nothing. He just keeps looking at the man and winding that chain up, getting ready. Man keeps trying to sic that dog, gives it a kick, and it runs up to Zeke like it’s gonna jump, and Zeke just stands there. Dog sniffs at his crotch. And Zeke must have some kind of magic in his crotch ’cause that dog, it just steps back and starts wagging its tail.” Jesse laughed and slapped the table.
Mike put the sandwich on the plate in front of Jesse. “I guess ol’ Zeke’s girlfriend likes that magic in his crotch.”
Jesse glared up at him. “Don’t be talking about her that way. She’s his wife, and she’s a good woman. Nicki Lynn is the only woman in the world worth keeping, or Zeke wouldn’t have her. You gotta be some hell of a woman to catch Zeke. And now they’ve got this baby on the way. Due any day, I guess.” Jesse studied his sandwich, turned the plate to make it look just right. “Yeah, Nicki Lynn. She loves that man. Cooks, cleans, keeps his books. And Zeke, he can’t keep his hands off her. Always patting her head, her ass. Now he just pats that big ol’ baby belly of hers.”
He studied the sandwich. “Thanks, man,” he said. “You make a neat sandwich. All the edges perfect.”
Mike smiled. Jesse was all right on a good day. You just had to keep on his good side. Jesse cut the
He turned back to Mike, who was tightening the foil over the platter of chicken. “Damn, Jesse. That’s about the saddest thing I ever heard.”
Jesse went to the refrigerator, grabbed a hunk of cheese. “It ain’t the worst thing. The bastard was right. There’s always another worst thing you’re gonna see.” He pulled a knife from a drawer, sat at the table. With a smooth stroke of the blade, he cut a slice of cheese and slid it into his mouth. He shook his head. “You got any crackers?”
Mike got some saltines from the cabinet.
Jesse cut another slice of cheese. “Zeke was all set to move those guns from that pawnshop. And we boost a truck out of gas. We don’t have shit but a fake hundred-dollar bill.” Jesse put the cheese down. “This ain’t real cheese. I can’t eat this.” He sat back, rubbed his belly. “I need something, man, something solid, something easy.”
“Want me to make you a fried-egg sandwich?”
“Yeah, man. That’d be cool. Thanks.”
Good , Mike thought. He’s settling down . He’d never seen a man shift moods as fast as Jesse. You never knew what could set him off, and sometimes it took the simplest thing to calm him back down.
Mike put a skillet on the stove, scooped in some bacon fat, reached into the refrigerator for an egg. He felt Jesse watching him. “You want this on plain bread or toast?”
“Toast. No butter. Just toast.” Jesse’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked. His mother. He clicked the phone off. There’d be hell to pay for this. She would yell, then cry, then give him more jobs to do around the house. Her car would be off limits for a while. He watched Mike leaning over the frying pan, studying the sizzling egg. Zeke cooked like that, studied whatever he cooked in a pot, kept leaning over it, smelling it, stirring it. Made the best fried trout Jesse’d ever had. Mike was tenderly flipping the egg. Jesse watched him. “You do that like Zeke, man. The man loves his food.”
“Did you call him yet?”
“Yeah. While you were making sure your granny was in bed, I called him, said we didn’t do the job.”
Mike put a piece of toast on the plate, slipped the fried egg onto it. “He pissed?”
Jesse shrugged. “And lay that top piece of toast on real gentle. I don’t want it all mashed down.” He watched to make sure Mike did it right. “Nah, he wasn’t pissed. He’s too cool to get pissed. He did thisrepo once. A man tries to sic his dog on him, big fucking Doberman, Zeke just turns real calm to the back of his truck, pulls out a chain. The dog just studies him. And Zeke, man, he ain’t scared of nothing. He just keeps looking at the man and winding that chain up, getting ready. Man keeps trying to sic that dog, gives it a kick, and it runs up to Zeke like it’s gonna jump, and Zeke just stands there. Dog sniffs at his crotch. And Zeke must have some kind of magic in his crotch ’cause that dog, it just steps back and starts wagging its tail.” Jesse laughed and slapped the table.
Mike put the sandwich on the plate in front of Jesse. “I guess ol’ Zeke’s girlfriend likes that magic in his crotch.”
Jesse glared up at him. “Don’t be talking about her that way. She’s his wife, and she’s a good woman. Nicki Lynn is the only woman in the world worth keeping, or Zeke wouldn’t have her. You gotta be some hell of a woman to catch Zeke. And now they’ve got this baby on the way. Due any day, I guess.” Jesse studied his sandwich, turned the plate to make it look just right. “Yeah, Nicki Lynn. She loves that man. Cooks, cleans, keeps his books. And Zeke, he can’t keep his hands off her. Always patting her head, her ass. Now he just pats that big ol’ baby belly of hers.”
He studied the sandwich. “Thanks, man,” he said. “You make a neat sandwich. All the edges perfect.”
Mike smiled. Jesse was all right on a good day. You just had to keep on his good side. Jesse cut the
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