Free 33 The Return of Bowie Bravo by Christine Rimmer

of days, he’d caught the kid watching him. Johnny always turned away so fast that Bowie couldn’t tell if the boy was looking at him with hostility or curiosity—or maybe even something resembling interest. Bowie told himself to consider the boy’s furtive glances as progress.
    Did he believe that? Not really.
    Bowie set the bit of basswood aside and put his knife away. It was lunchtime. Johnny was in school. He had no idea what Glory might be doing. Seemed a good time to get out for a while, maybe stop at Dixie’s Diner, say hi to Charlene and enjoy a big bowl of her famous chili smothered in cheddar and onions.
    Funny how things change, he thought as he strolled down the street from Upper Main. People waved and smiled at him. That had surprised him the first few days. He’d expected a lot of scowls and disapproving glances.
    But he’d been gone quite a while. And so far, he hadn’t made trouble for anyone, hadn’t drunk himself into a stupor or beat anyone’s face in. Folks seemed willing to accept him and treat him with kindness. Maybe they saw that he’d grown up a little in the time he was away. Maybe they were willing to give him a chance, to see how he acted before they judged him—unlike a certain dimpled brunette he could mention but wouldn’t. Because he wasn’t thinking about her now. He was just walking down the street in his old hometown under the washed-out winter sun, on his way to the diner for lunch.
    “Bowie! Man, I heard you were back in town. How you been?” A tall, wasted-looking dude with his long graying hair tied back with a strip of leather and a couple of teeth missing in front came at him from the St. Thomas Bar across the street.
    Bowie smiled and wished he could remember the guy’s name. Someone he used to get drunk with, no doubt. “Hey.” He held out his hand and they shook. The guy clapped him on the back and as he did it, the name came. “Zeb. Zeb Bickman.” Bowie seemed to remember a couple of brawls he and Zeb had gotten into together. And maybe one fight, at least, where the two of them had been drunk on their asses and ended up on opposite sides. Details were fuzzy. As they generally were when he looked back on that time of his life.
    “Come on across the street,” Zeb lisped through his missing teeth. “Let me buy you a beer.”
    “I don’t drink anymore.”
    “Hey. Well. Whatever works. A tall club soda, then?”
    Bowie was past the point when he went into bars and ordered club soda to prove that he could. Mostly, being in bars just depressed him now. “Thanks, but no. I’m on my way to Charlene’s place to get some lunch.”
    “Oh, man, you sure? You don’t want to whet the ol’ whistle for old time’s sake?” Zeb waited for Bowie’s shrug before adding, “’Nother time, then.”
    “You bet.”
    “Heard you were staying at the Rossi place.”
    “In the workshop out back, yeah.” He didn’t need Zeb getting the wrong idea, thinking he was living with Glory or anything like that.
    “Heard you delivered Glory’s little girl.”
    “I did, yeah.”
    “Whoa. Delivering a kid is a messy job that ought to be left to the professionals, if you ask me.”
    “It turned out all right. That’s what matters.” He reminded himself not to get testy with Zeb for being all up in his business. It was just that way in the Flat. Everybody knew everything about everyone.
    But then Zeb’s smile twisted into a leer. “She’s still hotter than a firecracker, that Glory. Went and married that solid citizen mamma’s boy, Matteo Rossi, though. Bet that chapped your ass, huh?”
    Bowie got that feeling. Like ants chewing under his skin. He didn’t do anything about it, though. He only looked steadily at Zeb—and thought about knocking out a few more of his teeth. The fact that he just thought about it was the difference between who he had been and who he was now.
    Apparently, Zeb read Bowie’s expression correctly. He put up both hands. “Hey, seriously, man,