Free The Return: A Novel by Michael Gruber Page A

or hiding from. Like you, I’m an aging man entitled to a few eccentricities, of which this trip is one. I didn’t invite you along, but now that you’re here I’d like you to respect my wish for a certain anonymity. Tell me one thing—are you packing heat this fine morning?”
    “What, you mean guns? Hell, no!” Slight pause. “Just the Sig is all.”
    “Oh, wonderful. I’m really looking forward to spending my … my vacation in some southern jail.” Marder had almost said “last days” but checked himself in time.
    “Right, so this is why you haven’t said twelve fucking words to me since those guys jumped us in that roadhouse in Buttfuck, Georgia? Because you’re scared I’ll disturb your contemplation?”
    “Jumped us? Jumped us? You walked into a biker bar and provoked a violent confrontation, from which I had to rescue you with a firearm, after which you destroyed maybe a quarter-million bucks’ worth of—”
    “First of all, who’re you talking to? Your grandmother? ‘Rescue’ was not the operative word, my friend. Interference I’ll give you; escalation, yes. If you’d kept that cannon in your jeans, in three minutes every one of those Confederate assholes would’ve been shit out of action. You’ve seen me do it.”
    “I have. When you were twenty-three, when you were thirty—”
    “What’re you saying? I’m past it? I’m fucked?”
    Skelly’s voice had risen to the combat decibel range, suitable for good communications over small-arms fire, and the usual mix of Mickey D patrons was staring at them, some with avid interest, some with fear. A chubby youth in a white shirt with a plastic name tag on it had eased his cell phone out.
    Marder stood up abruptly. “Yes, you’re a superannuated bag of gas. To prove it, we’re going to call a cab, find a pool hall, and I’ll whip your ass in nine ball while we wait for Bob to fix my proletarian vehicle.”
    “In your dreams,” said Skelly.
    *   *   *
    Marder was actually a somewhat better pool player than Skelly was, but Skelly had won the majority of the games they’d played over the years, simply because he wanted to win more than Marder did. They played a match of eleven games, win by two, and Marder dragged the thing out to twenty-three games, enjoying Skelly’s increasing discomfort, before easing off and throwing the last game, enjoying also the boyish triumph on his friend’s face. Not a competitive guy, Marder, although he wondered sometimes whether his remaining life might present him with some combat worth giving his all for. It’d be interesting if that happened.
    There was a seafood joint a little ways down the highway, so they walked over and had a meal, Cajun-style seafoods, rich and spicy. When they’d finished, Marder said, “Why don’t you call Bob and see if the truck’s done. He said five-thirty.”
    Skelly obligingly took out his costly brick and made the call, then called a cab. Bob turned out to be an artist with Bondo and paint. The holes were all neatly patched and the glass had been either plugged or replaced. Bob didn’t ask questions about whatever had caused the bullet holes, nor did he comment when he observed Skelly attaching Louisiana license plates to the Ford.
    Marder did, however.
    “May I ask what the fuck?”
    “Yeah, well, a little insurance. As you pointed out, we may have damaged some fascist motor vehicles back there and started a fire and so forth. I thought maybe the word might’ve filtered through to the police.”
    “Where did you get the plates?”
    “Some guy I know.”
    “Some guy? What guy?”
    “A guy who sells phony plates. It’s a need-to-know thing, Marder. Leave it lie. The papers’re all in the glove, your name and everything. So, are we rolling or what?”
    *   *   *
    After that, interminable Texas. Marder drove through the night, sometimes straying off the interstate to find a place to eat that wasn’t a chain and finding some good little places: