* * *
—
As for me, I was in there, out there, trapped in traffic.
Around, in front, and behind, thousands of cars were all lined up, all pointed the way of assorted homes. A steady wave of heat came through the window of my station wagon (the one I still own), and there was an endless cavalcade of billboards, shopfronts and people portions. With every movement, the city plowed inside, but there was also my signature smell of wood, wool and varnish.
I let my forearm poke from the car.
My body felt like lumber.
Both my hands were sticky with glue and turpentine, and all I wanted was to get home. I could have a shower then, and organize dinner, and maybe read, or watch an old movie.
That wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?
Just get home and relax?
Not a Goddamn chance.
On days like these, Henry had rules.
First, there had to be beer.
Second, it had to be cold.
For those reasons, he left Tommy, Clay, and Rosy at the cemetery and would meet them later, at Bernborough Park.
(Bernborough Park, for those unfamiliar with this neighborhood, is an old athletics field. Back then it was a crumbling grandstand, and a good car park’s worth of broken glass. It was also the venue of Clay’s most infamous training days.)
Before Henry got in the car, though, he felt it necessary to give Tommy some last-minute instructions. Rosy listened, too:
“If I’m late getting down there, tell ’em to hold their horses, right?”
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“Sure, Henry.”
“And tell them to have their money ready.”
“Sure, Henry.”
“Are you right with the ‘Sure bloody Henrys,’ Tommy?”
“I’m right.”
“Keep going like this and I’ll put you out there in front of him as well. Do you want that?”
“No thanks, Henry.”
“Don’t blame you, kid.” A short smile at the end of a playful, well-exercised mind. He slapped Tommy’s ear, soft and sure, then grabbed ahold of Clay. “And you—do me a favor.” He gripped his face, a hand each side. “Don’t leave these two bastards behind.”
* * *
—
In the post-car wave of dust, the dog looked at Tommy.
Tommy looked at Clay.