Free Blackwater Sound by James W. Hall

and Sugarman. The blonde leaned close and hissed and flashed her claws.
    â€œThe world springs from your mind, Thorn, and sinks again into your mind. That’s what the Buddhists say. And if you ask me, there’s something to it. You see what you want to see.”
    â€œThat goddamn airplane didn’t spring from my mind, Sugar.”
    They sat in silence for a while, watched the bartender wash the teachers’ glasses. Thorn pushed his drink away. He was wasting good alcohol, pouring it into a bottomless cavity.
    A couple of guys with long hair and Hawaiian shirts came into the bar. The schoolteachers were with them. Everyone laughing. On the same boozy wavelength.
    â€œThere’s nothing weird about this, Sugar? You sure?”
    â€œNothing you told me sounds weird, no. Some rich assholes from Palm Beach didn’t want to scuff their manicures. That’s all. I think what it is, you’re shell-shocked. An airplane crashes in your lap, it’s only natural you get a little case of post-trauma. And the way you’re dealing with it, being Thorn, you rush out and start sniffing around, thinking you gotta fix things.”
    Thorn looked over at the schoolteachers and their new friends. Bilge Burners all around.
    â€œYou’re right,” he said. “I’m full of shit.”
    â€œI didn’t say that.”
    â€œYeah, you did. Not in those words, but it’s the same thing.”
    The bartender came over and asked if they wanted another round. Sugar said no. Thorn shook his head.
    â€œI think the NTSB might want to talk to you. Transportation Safety Board. You’ve heard of them, right? The people that investigate these things.”
    â€œI’ve heard of them.”
    â€œThey’d probably like to debrief you. You being an eyewitness and all.”
    â€œWhat am I going to tell them? I saw the plane crash. It nearly capsized my boat. I don’t know anything else.”
    â€œYou should call. It’s your civic duty.”
    â€œSure,” Thorn said. “Soon as I get a phone installed.”
    Sugarman finished his beer and slid it to the edge of the bar. He picked up the tab and kept it out of Thorn’s reach.
    â€œYou want me to, I’ll call them for you.”
    â€œNo,” he said. “I’m going to stay the hell out of this.”
    Sugar got down from his stool and rested his hand on Thorn’s shoulder.
    â€œYou get some sleep, buddy. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
    â€œYeah,” Thorn said. “Some sleep. That’d be nice.”

    Morgan put the leftover Chinese in the refrigerator. Six white boxes. Shrimp fried rice, garlic chicken, the usual. Enough for dinner tomorrow. She wiped off the table, rinsed the plates and silverware, put them in the dishwasher. She corked the Pinot Noir and set it on the shelf. Set up the coffee machine for the morning.
    Johnny was upstairs in his bedroom. Her dad was in his study. Leaving her the woman’s work. Just like they’d treated her mother.
    Morgan turned off the kitchen light and went upstairs and stopped on the landing outside Johnny’s room. Marlon Brando was lecturing one of his thugs, using his muffled Godfather voice, as though his cheeks were stuffed with dental cotton. She stood for a moment listening to the familiar dialogue. Johnny watched them every night, gangster movies. Said it relaxed him. Cagney, Bogart, Pacino, Mitchum. Gunfire coming from his room, sirens, swelling music, fuck this, fuck that. For years she tried making fun of the movies, tried bullying him. Neither worked, so finally she gave up. She wasn’t his mother. If he wanted to wallow in that trash, fantasize an alternate life, it was his own choice. She was only his sister. That’s all she was, a sister and a daughter. Her brother and her father were mature adults. She had to keep reminding herself.
    She went down the narrow hallway and opened the attic door, took a deep