The Lost Get-Back Boogie

“Pour a shot,” he said.

“I hate to get drunk before nine in the morning.”

“You were belting it pretty heavy on the porch.”

“I don’t get fried every day of the week.”

He drank down the cup and picked up a cigarette butt from the ashtray. I threw my pack of Lucky Strikes on the table, but he ignored the gesture and puffed on a match held close to his lips.

“How’d you know the barn was on fire?” he said.

“I couldn’t sleep last night. That fat cop put my cojònes in a skillet when he showed me that spent cartridge.”

“Don’t worry about it. He’s just sweating you.”

“You got it figured out, do you?”

“What do you think? If he had you nailed, he would have busted you right there. He could have gotten that shell anywhere.”

“I wish I could be that damn sure, considering it’s my ass that’s on the line.”

“You talk like a fish. Use your gourd a minute. He wants you to jump your parole.”

There was a touch of irritation and meanness in Buddy’s voice that I didn’t like.

“Maybe I didn’t read him right, then,” I said.

“Besides, even if he picked that shell up, he still don’t have crap. You could have been target shooting up there two weeks ago. So forget it.” Buddy poured the rest of the bottle into the tin cup.

I sat on the edge of my bunk and rubbed Vaseline over the tops of my blistered feet, then put on a pair of white socks with my loafers.

“What did the old man talk about after I left?” Buddy said.

“Nothing, except finishing the fence line down by the slough.”

“That’s all. Nothing about the weather or the goddamn cows or cleaning out the birdcages?”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“You all just sat in silence and chewed on your pork-chop bones.”

“I don’t know what you’re pushing at, Buddy.”

“Not a thing, Zeno. Open a beer. Let’s get high.”

“I told you I’ve had it.”

“You look great.” He went to the icebox and came back with an opened can.

“I have to go to the hospital this morning to get my arm checked,” I said.

“That’s cool, because you can drive me somewhere else afterwards.”

I sipped off the beer and looked at him. His eyes were red, and he rubbed the nicotine-stained ends of his fingers together. I knew Buddy too well to intrude on whatever strange things were beating inside his crazy head, but something bad was loose and it was ugly as well.

“What do you have to do at the hospital?” he asked.

“I want to find out when I can get this cast off so I can start playing again. I feel like worms are crawling i