Free Ragged Company by Richard Wagamese Page B

signalled for another round.
    “So? What happened?” Digger asked, frowning.
    “Well, the son of a bitch scratched me. Leaped onto my chest and tore the bloody hell out of my jacket and scratched my hands and neck. Then he jumped off and ran away. Never saw him again.”
    “And?” Digger asked, moving slightly so a fresh draft could be dropped in front of him.
    “And? And what?”
    “And … what was it you learned that could change everything? And, by the way, change what everything?”
    Granite chuckled and sipped the last of his first whisky. “Well, I learned that life is risk. I learned that the only way I was ever going to know, discover, find out, learn, was to reach out—especially to the scary things. And what it changed was how I approached my life.”
    “How fucking fascinating,” Digger said and swallowed half his drink. “But what in the name of fuck does that have to do with meeting me?”
    “Well,” Granite said, looking right into Digger’s eyes, “I also learned that life is full of mean sons of bitches, and you can reach out all you want but the bastards will still try to scratch the hell out of you. Meeting you has been a reminder of that.”
    Digger just looked at him. Then, slowly, he nodded and a grin appeared on his face. “I like that,” he said and reached his hand across the table. “Just so long as you know.”
    Granite shook his hand firmly. “Long as I know.”
    “Well,” Amelia said. “That was fun. Anyway, Granite, my name is Amelia One Sky and I am happy to meet you.”
    They shook hands wordlessly. We all sat there silently, looking at each other, and if they were like me right then, they were all shopping for something to say to lead us somewhere, anywhere but the deep silence we found ourselves in. The four of us men took turns sipping or gulping from our drinks while Amelia sat there with a small smile on her face, watching us watch each other.
    “So what’re we gonna see next?” Dick said, and we all laughed like hell.

Digger
    S O WE’RE SITTING THERE , me and the Square John, after everyone else had split, not really saying much, just eyeballing the bar and drinking. Me, I’m there because I wanna drink and him, well, I kinda think there was something in the way that old-man bar felt that he liked. You can pull aloneness around you like an old coat sometimes and the Palace was full of coat-wearing mother fuckers. Looking at him that night I got the feeling that Mr. Granite Harvey wasn’t exactly having your typical urban pleasure trip through life and living. I liked that, really. Made him seem more real, more like me than I ever mighta figured.
    “So Timber’s kind of an odd name,” he goes after a while.
    “Yeah,” I go. “It kinda is.”
    “That’s not his real name, is it?” he goes.
    “No. It’s not. It’s a street name. We all got ’em. At least those of us that’ve been around long enough, anyways.”
    “So what does Timber mean?”
    “Means look the fuck out.” I swallow my draft and give him the short version of the story.
    “And Dick? That’s obviously his real name.”
    “There ain’t nothing fucking obvious on the street,” I go, andtell him about Double Dick Dumont and how he got his handle. Granite sat there looking at me wide-eyed, smiling and laughing finally.
    “Wow,” he goes. “That’s a story all right. What about Amelia?”
    “One For The Dead,” I go and wave at the bar.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Probably the most well-known street name out there. Everybody knows the old lady.”
    “Where did it come from?”
    The fresh brew arrived and I looked at it. “From this,” I go, and pour a little slop of beer on the carpet. For a minute or so I explain about the old rounders and their rituals and how the old lady came to get her handle. All through it Granite squints at me, taking it all in and still not touching the drink at his elbow. That bothered the hell out of me.
    “Are you gonna drink that fucking