Free Ballistics by D. W. Wilson Page B

diplomacy class?
    You might say I’ve got other training, too.
    Ever do much hand-to-hand? I said, very slowly.
    He ground the tip of his cigarette out on the concrete, flipped the butt off the ledge, and in a long breath let the last of the smoke go.
    That sounded vaguely threatening, he said.
    Then he shot forward, way faster than I’d expected. One strong fist latched onto the lapel of my shirt. He tugged, hard, and my head bobbed. I fumbled for the same grip, a fighting chance.
    He flashed his teeth, white as gold. I don’t like being threatened, he said.
    I squared my feet, grabbed his lapel, curled my wrist in to secure a grip on the field coat. My soldier’s grip, Cecil once called it. I could sense the strength in Crib’s arm, the patient, waiting muscles, the bicep seized like a windlass. He stunk of cigarettes and beer, and like a campfire, but I had no illusions—he wasn’t drunk.
    No one’s going to care if they find a dead American on the tracks, I said.
    Those a pair of dog tags around your neck?
    You bet.
    They look American made.
    All tags are the same.
    And here I had you pegged as a painter, he said, and, fast as before, his free hand shot into the folds of his coat, where you’d keep a pistol, and I made an awkward lunge for his elbow, wondered if anyone would hear the gun go off. He danced sideways, the two of us still attached fist-to-lapel, and then he drew a set of dog tags from some hidden, inside pocket.
    I got a pair, too, he said, dangling them in front of his face. He released me. I did the same.
    He sat down with his back to the barrier, draped one leg over the edge. From God knows where, and God knows when, he’d produced a hip flask. Well it sure was nice talking to you, he said, and took a big gulp. I’m gonna sit here and sober up.
    I only lingered a moment, not sure what to think, wanting to pound that brat to a pulp, to grab his grinning face and smash it on the concrete until all that remained was a red, wrecked jaw. As I moved up the bridge toward my truck, he hollered: Don’t get lost in the shuffle, now.
     
    CECIL’S TRUCK WASN’T out front when I rolled up to my house, so I figured he’d found Jack and taken him home to get clean. Light shone through the living-room windows, which meant Linnea and Nora were probably watching TV. I killed the ignition and put the truck in gear—backward slope—and hauled the e-brake tight. Then I sat listening to the engine cool down. Probably, I should have thrown Crib off the bridge.
    Nora scurried around the bend when I came through the door. She didn’t look happy; all the lines at the edges of her mouth, the ones that usually curled toward her eyes, were skewed down in a scowl that made her seem older than her years.
    Cecil couldn’t find him, she said.
    He just gave up ? I said.
    Gone home, to wait, in case Jack goes there.
    Fuck sakes.
    Archer, Nora said, and pulled a stray strand of red hair from her eyes.
    How’s Linnea?
    She’s fine. No … other bruising.
    Did Cecil check the park like I told him?
    Yeah, and he went back to the fort but the party was still on. Jack wouldn’t be there?
    No, he won’t be, I said.
    Should we call the police?
    Not yet.
    Is something wrong? she said, taking one hesitant step toward me, like a person might if their husband came through the door with a black eye. I waved her off and went out to my truck. Right then I wanted to give Cecil a backhand for good measure. About every part of me figured Jack had gone to the park—it had that loneliness a guy Jack’s age needed to get over a little humiliation. It’s where I’d have gone. My old man once found me cowering in the lining of a giant tractor tire, after my mom died young. He wasn’t exactly gentle in the extraction of boy from rubber, but I rode his shoulders all the way to the house.
    I parked as near the playground as I could get without having to try my luck fording a ditch. Light from the streetlamps hit the jungle gym and the