Free Bullets of Rain by David J. Schow Page A

parole-board-payoff part. The showy-good-behavior part. The under-the-table-"
        "Stop, stop, or I'll drown."
        "I am, in fact, a murderer, if you want to get picky about it. Personally, I'd rather believe the story than the reality. It's bad enough that I'll have that dumb fuck Tommi's face in my brain for the rest of my life." Derek knotted his hands between his knees, risking a reverie.
        "And how does the parole thing work, and give you the latitude to show up on my doorstep in another state?" Art was still skeptical.
        "I was technically in violation of my release the minute I stepped onto a plane for San Francisco. Lawyer's there, a grizzled fella by the name of Thurston Cutler Junior. You ever need first-class rep, he's your man and you can tell him I sent you."
        "What'd all this cost you, if you don't mind my asking?"
        "What is costs, Arthur, is you have to stop calling me Derek. My name's Jacob Hume now; Jake to my pals."
        This time Art brought the refills. "Here you go, eh, Jake. Would you like to hear about our specials for this evening?"
        "Comedian. A lot of those in the ole big house. You'll do well."
        "What happened to-?"
        "Erica?"
        "Yeah, Erica. Sorry."
        "What'd the masochist say when asked what he liked about his lover?"
        "Beats me," they both said simultaneously. It was an old, retarded joke, the kind your dad might tell for forty years running. If it was funny during the Second World War, it's funny now, goddammit. Art's father used to cackle.
        "I used to think that Erica actually got what she wanted, in a perverse sort of way. A big tragedy to add drama to her new life story. You can get a lot of mileage out of the old murdered-lover anecdote. But where is she now?" Derek-"Jake"-shrugged. "Now ask me what it was like in prison."
        "How come you didn't tell me when it happened?"
        "Like you needed that grief. There was nothing to do, unless you were going to send cookies, and the guards eat all the good ones, anyway. My choice. I'm telling you now. Don't get all hurt and shit."
        Art thought about what he could have done, realistically, practically, and saw his friend's point. He still felt that small pang of exclusion, though.
        In order to share, match story for story, Art told Derek about the human bone and the note in the bottle found on the beach earlier in the day. Derek, abristle with the freshly picked memory scabs of Erica, snorted at the floridly vague declaration on the waterlogged paper.
        "It's gotta be a chick, no offense. It's got that manipulative, self-centered, me-me-me stench. You recognize junkie behavior faster if you're inundated in it. Little Miss No-Name probably got all teary and jumped into the ocean, and if that's a piece of her you're keeping on the mantel, throw it back and make sure Blitzy doesn't fetch it."
        "Junkie behavior?" said Art.
        "You know-evasion, denial, refusal to address whatever's relevant? 'How're things?' 'Things're fine'… when they're not, when they are, in fact, all fucked up, but nobody discusses it because that would violate the gentle fib that everything's okay and everybody's getting along swell. Under all that, the hunger holds illimitable dominion over all. The hunger for drugs, or freedom, or whatever goofy perfect picture has been cooked up by the delusional. Junkie behavior."
        "Hell, in that case, I could've written the note," said Art, and they both laughed.
        "Next question," Derek said with forced brightness, as though eager to get past it. "Did you get fucked in the ass in the slammer?"
        "I wasn't going to say that.''
        "Everybody says it. Everybody thinks it. And the answer is, yes, when I was fresh fish, I got held down and raped by some very big guys with shaved heads and a lot of scar tissue. By the time newer fish rolled in, I was old news, and the