Free Cry Father by Benjamin Whitmer

little.”
    “All right,” Junior says. “Tell you what. As long as he doesn’t repeat it, I won’t whip his ass again.”
    “How’s about this,” Patterson says. “How’s about the next time you get the urge to start beating on him, you give me a call? How’s about we have a drink and talk it over.”
    Junior looks at him. “I’ll do my best,” he says.
    They stop talking for a minute. The girls aren’t even trying to hide their interest in Junior from their boyfriends anymore. One of them, the longer and prettier of the two, says something to the other, and they both smile. Their boyfriends are hunched on their elbows at the bar now, talking low to the bartender. The first thought that goes through Patterson’s head is that he’s way too old for this shit. The second is that he wouldn’t leave the bar now if you put a screwdriver to his temple.
    “That one there, she’s something,” Junior says.
    “The other one, too,” Patterson says. “Which one were you talking about?”
    “I don’t suppose it matters.”
    “I don’t suppose it does,” Patterson says. Then, “Do you know what scope lock means?”
    “Go ahead,” Junior says.
    “It’s a military term.”
    “I wouldn’t have guessed you for the military.”
    “I wasn’t,” Patterson says. “I read it somewhere.”
    “You read a lot,” Junior says. “So it’s a secondhand military term?”
    “That’s right.”
    It could be the light, but it looks an awful lot like Junior winks at one of the girls. Though with the eye patch, he could have just been blinking.
    “So what’s it mean?” Junior asks.
    “It means when somebody only gets their information from one source, and it starts to affect their thinking.”
    “Like Henry and that fucking radio show he listens to? Brother Joe?”
    “Yeah,” Patterson says. “And other things.”
    Junior laughs out loud at that. “Go fuck yourself.” He draws a vial of cocaine out of his pocket and cuts two lines on the booth’s tabletop with his pocketknife. The bartender looks over at them and looks away. Junior snorts one of the lines and passes Patterson the straw. Patterson hesitates. “Go ahead,” Junior says. “They ain’t going to call the cops. Ain’t one of them legal.”
    Patterson takes the straw and snorts the other line while Junior cuts more. When he’s done there are twelve, each of which would kill a large child outright and drown most adults in postnasal drip. “I got enough for everybody,” Junior calls to the girls. The long one licks her lips and all the breath goes out of Patterson. But she doesn’t approach. “Calm down, Patterson,” Junior says. “We’re just fishing.” His good eye glitters like that of a child arsonist.
    I probably should shoot him right here, Patterson thinks. Instead he does another line.
    The main problem with cocaine is that you never really have enough of it. Even on a binge, you’ve usually got just enough to keep yourself in nosebleeds and self-hatred. But Junior cuts lines like other people serve beers, and inside of a half hour he and Patterson are falling-out-of-the-booth high. And Junior’s pitching the girls, calling to them every ten minutes or so that he has more cocaine back at his house, a whole lotmore, and plenty of beer. It isn’t the kind of offer that’d work on every girl, probably. Just every girl Patterson’s ever known. Then Junior winks at Patterson across the booth. “Watch the coke,” he says. And he stands wobbling out of his chair and saunters down the bar, disappearing into the restroom hallway at the back of the bar.
    To their credit, the Mexican boys wait nearly thirty seconds before following him.
    Patterson picks up the vial of cocaine and slips it in his pocket. The bartender moves out from behind the bar, meeting him in front of the hallway. “They’re fine,” he says. “There is no trouble here.” He’s holding a little Raven .25 automatic in his right hand.
    “Sure,” Patterson