Nobody's Angel

38

“TIO?” PATRICK HELD THE PHONE SLIGHTLY AWAY FROM HIS head.

“How’s Patrick?”

“I’m fine.”

“What can I do you for?”

“You know when we talked earlier?”

“Yes,” said Tio. “Sure do. But we finished that conversation.”

“Well, not entirely.”

“Yeah, we did. Now, don’t y’all be stupid. I’ve got to ease up on this beast with my rocks and sling. So don’t go to jumping me out with some Yankee love of truth. Guy in my position needs to exact some teeny form of retribution without resorting to a bunch of bald statements and unusual self-righteous Yankee speeches, calling me up in the middle of the day with y’mouth hanging open, this man-to-man horseshit, which you have my invitation to give back to the Army.”

“I can’t understand this.”

“Myself!”

“How does it turn out?”

“You just shake and it’s snake eyes time after time. They’re loaded.”

“Meaning what?”

“You never answered me about Claire.”

Patrick was not used to this form of evangelical yammering, if indeed anyone was. The best gloss of Tio’s speech he could come up with went: There are things one doesn’t say; in which case, they had just had a rather traditional moment together, man-to-man, in vacant splendor.