Bridge of Clay

“Calzones.”

“What’s a calzone?”

“Je-sus Christ!”

Still they both grinned, and blood ran to Henry’s chin, but at least I’d gotten their attention.

“Are you right, Matthew?” said Rory. “That’s the best bloody talk Henry and I have had in years!”

“Probably ever.”

Rory looked at Clay. “That was quality heart-to-heart.”

“Well”—I pointed between them—“I’m sorry to interrupt the pizzas, burgers and calzones debate, and you two bonding over a floury pair of—”

“See?! Floury! Even Matthew can’t resist ’em!”

“—but I wouldn’t mind knowing what the hell happened out there.”

Now Henry looked dreamily in the general direction of the sink.

“And?”

He blinked himself back. “And what?”

“What happened?”

“Oh—yeah…” He conjured up the energy. “Well, anyway, you know, they wouldn’t hit me, so I just went over to her—I was pretty drunk by then—and I thought I might press the flesh, so to speak….”

“And?” Rory asked. “How was it?”

“I don’t know—I hesitated.” He had a good think about it.

“Then what?”

Henry, half-grin, half-grim. “Well, she’d seen I was coming in.” He swallowed and felt it all over again. “So she punched me four times in the balls, and three times in the face.”

There was a genuine outcry of “Jesus!”

“I know—she threw the whole bloody display at me.”

Rory, especially, got excited. “See that, Clay? Four! That’s commitment! None of this two-times-in-the-coins shit.”

Clay actually laughed; out loud.

“And then,” Henry finally went on, “old Starkers and Schwartz, they finished me off—they had to.”

I was perplexed. “Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Henry was matter-of-fact. “They were worried they were next.”

* * *

—

In the bedroom again, it was well past midnight, and Henry sat up, abruptly.

“Bugger this,” he said, “I’m sober enough, I’m going out to get the car.”