The sun was still warm as I sat by the creek, beer chilling in the water, leaning against the log with a piece of wood in one hand and a sharp knife in the other. I was carving, nice and slow, a snake out of the piece of wood I picked up when I'd limped out to the creek.
I was going stir crazy in the house.
Miss Lily-Rylee hadn't said anything about the fat lip and slightly swollen eye, not last night nor this morning, but that didn't mean I didn't see them.
Part of me hurt to see her moving around the kitchen, making me burnt scrambled eggs and slightly soggy toast for breakfast, looking, to use Ant's phrase, like an Irish house-wife. I knew I wasn't the one who had hit her, who had busted her lip or her eye, but it still made me feel slightly ashamed as she moved around my kitchen.
The snake slowly took shape as the morning wound on.
Miss Lily-Rylee said she'd be back in the evening, that she had to help her uncle out at the store. The old man didn't close up until after twenty-hundred, which meant that she wouldn't get out to my house until after twenty-one hundred. She'd have to help run the register, put away the money, sweep up, turn off all the lights, and everything else that went into closing a store after a hard day's work.
Not that I was thinking of any of that. Instead I was thinking about those two injuries.
The right corner of her mouth and the left cheek. Two slaps. Probably a regular slap then a backhand.
I wondered who had done it.
I doubted that skeezy little fuck at the wrecking yard would have done it. He'd have done it years ago, not last night.
The knife flashed in the sunlight as I detailed the scales of the snake on the stick as I kept whittling.
I finished off the beer and stared at the water for a long moment.
Ant would have already been in town, interrogating people, finding out what he wanted to know.
Lord knew I remembered that month of blood and fire that had consumed him back when the Old Man of SOCOM had died and some tweakers had robbed him while he lay dying on the asphalt.
How Stillwater had avoided jail, I still had no idea. I was a Texas cattle baron and I doubted that I had enough sway to keep a man out of jail in Texas if he'd gone berserk like Stillwater had done.
You tell that Irish mob reject... went through my mind.
Henley's voice.
I shook my head and slowly got up. I tucked the knife in the sheath on my belt, put the half-carved snake in a pocket, then grabbed the cane and the last of the six pack.
My leg hurt slightly as I limped back to the house.
A nap left me refreshed, and I made dinner for myself, putting some away for Miss Lily-Rylee when she came home. Fried chicken, chicken gizzards, livers, and hearts, with steamed broccoli with cheese, and canned fruit cocktail that was chilled and served on a bed of over-steamed white rice that had been steamed with canned milk rather than water.
By nine I put her dinner in the microwave.
By ten, I put her dinner in the fridge after carefully covering it.
She called at ten thirty, letting me know that she'd just gotten finished and wouldn't be able to make it and would I please understand.
I told her I understood.
At eleven, I went to bed.
I wasn't sure what woke me up. Something. Something off.
I got up, wiping my eyes, and swung my legs out of the bed. The scars were in stark relief to my pale skin in the moonlight. I grabbed the cane and got up, moving to the bedroom door and opening it.
"Miss Lily-Rylee?" I asked out loud, moving down the hallway, leaning on the cane.
I came out of the hallway, into the dining room.
I'll admit it, I was fat and happy. Completely unaware. Completely flat footed.
The fist caught me in the gut and fire roared up as the surgical repairs erupted in pain. I doubled up, sagging, and a hand grabbed the back of my shift, pulling me along, keeping me up. I tried to pull away and the fist hit me in the guts again, making me groan with pain.
Whoever it was steered me to a chair, sitting me down at my own dining room table. The hand rubbed my hair for a second then pushed my head to the side.
A figure moved up and pulled one of the chairs away from the table, turning the chair around. The figure sat down, folding their arms on the back of the chair.
"Evening, soldier-boy," the figure said.
"Evening," I gasped. I bent over, coughing, and a hand grabbed my hair. Fingers snapped and the hand let go. When I was done coughing I straightened up, wiping my mouth. I checked the back of my hand in the moonlight.
No blood.
"Figured you and I better have a talk before you get a stupid idea, seeing as you're a war hero and all," the silhouette said.
"That was a long time ago," I gasped. I leaned against the table, coughed for a moment, then looked up. "I'm just a busted up old man now."
The figure nodded.
I could see my cigarettes in the middle of the table. I reached out slowly, grabbed them, and pulled them toward me.
The guy slightly behind me stepped up, grabbing my wrist. He pulled the cigarettes and lighter out of my hand.
"Zippo says..." there was a pause. "Born to fight, trained to kill, willing to die, but never will, some weird thing, looks like a name, like All-Fen-We-here, then two slash one nine, bottom has May, 1986."
"Momento lighter," the silhouette said.
I just nodded.
"Give him one and put the pack and Zippo back," the figure said. The figure chuckled. "Lighter like that, means more than almost anything else. Part of a man's soul."
I just nodded again.
I heard the lighter clink, heard the flint rasp. Smoke drifted by me and the lighter clinked closed. A hand held out a cigarette and I took it gratefully. The guy behind me set the lighter and pack down on the table.
"You sweet on Ol' Pete's niece Rennie?" the silhouette asked as I took a drag off the smoke.
"She's a good girl," I said. I set the cigarette in the ashtray.
I knew what was coming.
The silhouette shook his head. "Rennie has a bad habit of sticking her nose where it doesn't belong," the figure said. "Before you think you can do anything to protect her," he pointed.
The guy behind me grabbed me in a chokehold, tightening it and making my head pound as he compressed my neck. I gagged, slapping at his arm. It was thick, muscular, and he was used to the hold.
The silhouette picked up the smokes and lighter, lighting a cigarette.
I knew they were figuring I was too preoccupied by the chokehold to take stock of the reveal.
Face like a sheep killing dog. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Scar on the cheek like a lightning bolt just under the eye. Narrow jaw, almond shaped face, shitty chinstrap facial hair, pencil mustache. Haircut was neatly done, with frosted tips. His arm had a couple of shitty tattoos, including a spiderweb on his right forearm.
I took it all in even as I gagged, slapped the forearm, and kicked my feet.
"Let him go," the figure said as he exhaled smoke.
I coughed, bending forward.
"You advise your little girlfriend to keep out of my business, or it's going to be worse than a busted lip and roughing up her sugar daddy," the figure said.
I just nodded.
"I can come in your house any time I like," the figure said. He made a motion and the guy behind me slapped me across the back of my head. "I can have my boys come in your house and fuck you up," he said. He made a motion again and the chokehold came back.
"I can have my boys strangle you right in your own kitchen and there isn't shit you can do about it, soldier boy," he said. He leaned forward. "You guys ain't about shit and I know it. You lost Vietnam. Let the rag heads kill three thousand people in New York. You got a rep, but nothing else."
The chokehold loosened but didn't let up.
He leaned back, taking a drag and exhaling smoke. "So now you know, you don't impress me, war hero. I'll kill you and throw you into one of the old coal mines on the mountain. Nobody will find you, nobody will even care," he said.
He chuckled.
"You ain't nobody here. You ain't got no kin. You ain't got no friends. You just got a little fat ass sniffing around hoping you'll pay her bills, maybe give her fat ass a little lick and tickle," he laughed. "So you know, war hero, out here, you ain't nobody."
I just nodded as best the chokehold would let me.
He stood up, making a motion.
The guy tightened the chokehold again as another guy grabbed my right arm and someone else grabbed my left arm.
The one on the right pulled my arm straight out, on the table, and turned my arm so the inside of my forearm was up.
The silhouette stopped next to me, taking a long drag off the cigarette.
"This'll give you a reminder, war hero, that you ain't nobody up here," the silhouette said.
He pushed the red hot cherry into my skin, twisting the cigarette. The smell of burnt skin flooded out.
I screamed, trying to yank away, then gagged and choked as the hold was tightened even further.
He pulled the cigarette back, took another drag off of it, then pushed it against my skin again.
All I could do was gag and kick.
Twice more, and he crushed it out in the skin of my forearm.
He tousled my hair, then shoved my head.
Just like the guy who had steered me to the chair.
"Those scars, they'll remind you, war hero, that you ain't nobody," the guy said.
The chokehold let go.
"You take care now, war hero," the guy said.
I bent over my arm, sobbing.
They laughed and tromped out of my house. The door closed, and I heard them laugh as they walked across my porch to the stairs. I heard an engine start and headlights came on, lighting up the front of my trailer.
I stood up slowly, letting my arms fall to my side.
They walked down the steps and I stared at them, memorizing their faces.
I could hear glass shattering outside and knew that someone was busting up the glass on my trucks.
I walked to the window, staring out of it.
Four guys at the trucks, swinging axe handles or axes, busting in my windows. I could faintly hear them laughing even from inside the house.
They got into two cars and left.
I went into the bathroom, getting out the medical kit. I held my arm over the sink and ran the toothbrush across the burns, ripping away the burnt flesh till it bled, debriding the wounds completely. I put on silvadine, making sure that each burn was carefully covered, then I put gauze pads on the wounds before wrapping my forearm in gauze.
The old reflexes came back easy, sitting on the toilet and bandaging my arm.
I could almost smell Ant's cologne, Nagle's perfume, the smell of apples and cinnamon from Aine.
I got up, putting away the medical kit, and walked into the frontroom. I didn't bother putting on anything else, just stood in the window in my boxers, wearing a t-shirt, and stared.
My lawn was empty. I could see the moonlight sparkling off of the shattered glass from my two trucks.
I should have known better.
Anthony could have told me.
Foster could have told me.
It always goes down this way.
I stood in the front room, staring at the driveway.
"I didn't want this," I whispered, feeling my forearm throbbing as it slowly swelled up. "I didn't want any of this," I said into the darkness, my lips barely moving.
The darkness didn't answer as I stared at the night.
That was OK.
It didn't need to answer.