Contagious

Perry smiled his split-lip smile and raised the bottle in salute. There was only a swig or two left

“Thanks, Mister Phillips,” Perry said, then tipped back the bottle. He left a little bit, perhaps half a shot’s worth, and offered the bottle to Dew.

Dew took it and drained it.

“For all the good it does me,” Perry said. His smile faded, and it had been fake to begin with. He looked haunted. Dew had seen expressions like that before, many years ago. He’d seen them on the kids in his platoon. Not all the kids, and not all the time. Usually after losing a friend, or hunkering down against a mortar attack that lasted for days, or killing a little boy who was holding a hand grenade and running right at their buddies, or the first time they put a knife into a man’s belly and held a hand over his mouth while he died.

“So I’m tough,” Perry said. “Whoop-de-f.u.c.kin’-doo. What did being tough get me? My c.o.c.k is ruined, man. They sewed it back on, but they don’t know if I’ll ever get a b.o.n.e.r again. They said I might be impotent for the rest of my life. For sure I can never have kids.”

“So you don’t get to have kids, so what? I’ll never have a son.”

“You have a daughter,” Perry said.

Dew nodded. “True, and I love her to death. You’ve got me there. But you know what? She hates fishing. Wouldn’t go even one time just to try it. She saw fish on TV and thought they looked slimy. I never went fishing with my kid. Won’t be able to do it with grandkids, either, because she’s not having children. My line gets snuffed out just like yours.”

“Why won’t she have kids?”

“She’s a d.y.k.e.”

“No s.h.i.t?”

“No s.h.i.t,” Dew said. “I don’t see her and her partner kicking out a pa.s.sel of little ones, if you know what I’m sayin’. And I love her for who she is, by the f.u.c.king way, so if you use the word d.y.k.e again, I’m going to kick you right in the nuts.”

“I didn’t say d.y.k.e, Mister Phillips. You did.”

“I did?”

“Yeah.

“Oh,” Dew said. “Well, then stop calling me Mister Phillips, G.o.ddamit.”

“Yes sir.”

“And can that sir s.h.i.t. I work for a living. You call me Dew. But not Dewie. I hate that.”

“Okay, Dew,” Perry said. His voice sounded deeper than normal. Elbows on his thighs, his head hung low again, uneven hair drooping down like a blond curtain hiding the stage of his face.

Dew realized he’d just threatened to kick Perry in the nuts. Probably not the most sensitive thing to say to someone who had taken a pair of poultry shears to Big Jim and the Twins. Dew took a deep breath—he’d have to remember to think before he talked.

“You know what, hoss?” Dew said.

Perry managed to shrug without lifting his head.

“I’m kind of sick of your whining.”

This time Perry looked up. Not all the way, but enough for the blue eyes to stare out from behind the blond curtain.

“Whining?” Perry said in a hiss. “How about you cut off your junk, get shot twice, then go through two weeks of an experimental treatment that feels like little men made of fire walking around under your skin and p.i.s.sing flames on all the important stuff, stuff like your brain. And while you’re visiting my slice of paradise, bring in a team of specialists to sew your Jimmy back on, minus your nuts, of course, ’cause they had tentacles growing through them, and then listen to the motherf.u.c.king specialists tell you your c.o.c.k has maybe a ten percent chance of ever functioning again. How about you do that, Dew, and tell me I’m whining.”

“You poooooor f.u.c.king baby.”

Perry’s eyes showed another emotion—shame. Or maybe it was just pain. The pain of hearing someone you respect tell you you’re worthless.

“Look, hoss, that sucks,” Dew said. “But the thing is, you need to quit feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I think I’ve got a golden ticket to feel sorry for myself,” Perry said. “I think I pa.s.s ‘go’ and collect two hundred bucks on the way, because if I don’t have the right to feel sorry for myself, who the f.u.c.k would?”

“How about Marty Hernandez?”

Perry’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Who the h.e.l.l is that?”

“A kid I served with back in ’Nam.”

“Oh, come on,” Perry said. “War stories?”

“Yes, war stories. Just listen, okay?”

Dew let it hang in the air. Perry gave that narrow-eyed look again, but nodded.

“We were on patrol in the foothills of Binh Thuan. We came under fire, caught off guard. Couple guys went down right away. Marty and I jumped off the trail into a nice little depression that gave some cover, only Marty took a round just as he jumped. Hit his leg below the knee, man. Severed it, except for a little string of meat and skin. So he starts screaming. I get to the edge and return fire, because they might have been right behind us, you know?”

Perry nodded as if he knew.

“Marty is in real bad shape. But I can’t help him, because I’ve got Charlie coming at us. I can see them charging, so I’m shooting. Marty is bleeding all over; he has leaves and sticks and s.h.i.t stuck to the stump of his leg. He stops screaming. I’m still firing. I know I killed two, maybe a third, then Marty, he says real calm, Dew, let’s get out of here. I sneak a look at him. He’d used his knife to finish the job on the leg, and he’s holding his foot and leg to his chest like it’s a f.u.c.king baby. Bullets are hitting all around me, so I turn back and start firing again. Then you know what Marty does?”

Perry shook his head.

“He starts talking to me about the Raiders.”

“Get the f.u.c.k out of here,” Perry said. “The Oakland Raiders?”

Dew nodded. “Yeah, he loved them. Had that logo with the shield and the swords tattooed on his shoulder, man. Bad tat, too. Another guy in the platoon did the work, but that doesn’t matter, right?”