Free A Dead Issue by John Evans

you off and getting this night over with.”
    â€œYou mean we’re done getting into trouble? You sure you don’t want to do it up right?” I asked. “Burn down an orphanage? Rape a nun? How about we go to the police station and shoot the place up?”
    Dusty looked over and tried his best to smile. Even his wink was slow and tired.
    â€œMaybe tomorrow,” he said.

CHAPTER 16
    I didn’t think sleep would be possible, but it was—deep and dreamless, a near coma of inactivity. The true nightmare was the events of the day before, and waking did not bring with it renewed energy or a sense that everything was going to be all right when viewed in the crisp light of a new day. Instead, a great weight pressed upon me, driving me down and filling me with dread of things to come.
    I looked at the clock—an hour and a half before lunch with my father. My first impulse was to simply throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and be done with it, but one of those dreadful things to come was going to be a visit by the police. I didn’t want to look like some homeless bum when they got around to making a visit. All through my shower I expected them to pound on my door, and I was relieved when I left my apartment without seeing a squad car parked outside.
    My car wouldn’t start. It was totally dead, but that only completed the miserable outlook for the day—no wallet, no money, no license, no car, no future. I still had plenty of time to walk the seven blocks to the Barcelona, a trendy restaurant favored by my father and the appointed place for our lunch. I walked at a brisk pace, thinking that this might be my last good meal for a while, especially if the police decided to throw me in jail.
    The maitre d' took me to my father’s table and pulled the chair out for me. I nodded a greeting to my father as I sat and adjusted the chair under me. He acknowledged me with a smile.
    â€œThanks for coming,” he said as if I had done him a special favor by showing up.
    We sat staring at each other as our smiles faded, neither of us knowing quite what to say. A waiter came and interrupted our discomfort by taking my drink order. I looked at my father’s martini and ordered a beer. The awkward silence continued.
    â€œSaw in the paper Jonah died,” he said finally.
    I looked up from the menu,and his deep blue eyes held steadily on me.
    â€œI know,” I said. “The guys who found him were talking about it at Miller’s.
    â€œThe paper was pretty sketchy,” he shook his head. “There was some shooting, evidently,” he paused. “Police said there might have been an intruder.”
    â€œHe wasn’t shot. One of the men said it was probably his heart. I worked for him yesterday. He seemed fine.”
    My father sipped at his martini thoughtfully. There was another long pause.
    â€œYou liked working for Jonah?” he asked, and I had a feeling this was the lead-in to the real topic of the day.
    â€œYes,” I said. “It's outdoors. It’s better than . . .” I paused.
    â€œMcDonald’s?”
    â€œI was going to say, ‘Being cooped up in an office all day.’ But, yes, it is better than McDonald’s.” I found relief in being able to be honest about it. I added, “McDonald’s sucks.”
    My father smiled, “So does being cooped up in an office all day.”
    The waiter came with my beer and took our food order. As he walked away with the menus tucked under his arm, my father placed his martini on the table and looked at me.
    â€œHow’s your brother doing?” he asked.
    I was so shocked by his question I didn’t respond. I stared at him.
    â€œHe applied for a job at Cameron,” he continued.
    I recovered enough to ask, “And you didn’t hire him?”
    â€œHave you taken a good look at him? Tattoos, piercings, dresses like a zombie? It’s a wonder McDonald’s took