Free Payback by Sam Stewart

French nuns. I know how to say two things in French. I can say, ‘I want a platter of cheese and some coffee,’ and ‘You play with your dick you go directly to hell.’”
    Catlin gave it thought. “They were right, though, weren’t they.”
    â€œYeah. I got in here on a wang and a prayer.”
    Catlin raised his glass now and laughed. Mack didn’t, just looked at him coolly out of flat gray eyes. “Cat,” he said slowly. “Think you’ve got nine lives?”
    â€œNo,” Catlin said, then thought a little more and said, “What about you?”
    â€œMe? Do I think you’ve got nine lives? Way I hear it, man, you used about seven already and you’re—what?—twenty-one?”
    â€œNineteen.”
    â€œNineteen. What the hell,” Mack said. “You got one more death before it counts, am I right?—I were you, kid, the next time I died I’d take it serious.”
    â€œThanks,” Catlin said, and then waited. “You got any other good advice?”
    â€œOh Jesus, if you’re looking for ad vice ,” Mack said, “you got advisers all around. You got guys, takes ’em five ten years to lace a shoe, they’re advisers. We’re all of us advisers here, kiddo. What it’s all about. Advice. I’d advise you not to listen to advice.”
    Catlin gave it up now and polished off his vodka and poured another shot. He felt pretty dumb because he’d really been serious; he wanted some advice. He felt himself an amateur where Mack, with his steel reputation, was a pro. What he needed was a clue, little pointers, like Mantle Shows How To Hold a Bat . There were questions to be asked. How do you kill a guy and make him stay dead, so he isn’t resurrected with each rising moon, each slipping of consciousness? How do you do that? How do you keep yourself from screaming out loud on a permanent basis? How do you survive? Catlin had to know and he had to know it fast because Mack was on his way. One more week and he’d be out of it; home. He’d go back to being Mitchell.
    The waiter came over: platter of cheeses and a basket of bread.
    â€œStory is the cheese here is made out of dogs,” Catlin said. “DeVane told me that. Serious. I said to him, What happens—you think they milk the dogs? He goes, No man, they kill ’em. They club ’em and they kill ’em and they moosh ’em all up.”
    Mack raised his eyes. “I’d believe that,” he said. “Dismiss nothing out of hand. As long as it’s absurd and disgusting then it’s true.”
    â€œToo often.” Catlin said, and then waited once again. “Did you ever kill a sergeant?”
    Mack looked away. “You mean Burdick? I don’t know. It’s entirely possible. Fat little bastard just sitting on the can just waiting to be opened? Could be,” Mack grinned. “But we’ll likely never know.—Is the kitty-cat curious?”
    â€œForget it,” Catlin yawned. “I just wondered.”
    â€œFair enough.” Mack looked at his watch again, poured another shot. A very old man passed slowly on the street with a cardboard suitcase. He stopped at a kiosk and beckoned for a cab. Mack said, “You know how old he is? Guess.”
    Catlin made a shrug. “About eighty?”
    â€œNo way. Twenty-one,” Mack said. “You know what this country is, kitty? Shangri-La. Puts the sparkle in your cheeks and the color in your eyes but you leave it, you’re a hundred.”
    â€œThat, I believe.”
    â€œWell of course you believe it, it’s disgusting and absurd. I don’t know, man. I get on that plane next week— if I get on that plane—I’m gonna look just like him.”
    Catlin turned around again, watching as the old man dodderingly climbed aboard a two-seater bike and disappeared into traffic. “You got any plans?”
    Mack