56

When Z arrived in the morning, I was showered and shaved and dressed for work. I had the little .38 in an ankle holster, and my new .40 S&W semiautomatic on my right hip. I still had the Browning nine-millimeter, but I kept it locked in the hall closet, as a spare.

Last night’s quartet was no longer in front of my house, and we saw nothing of them as we walked to the Taj, but as we ate near the window on Newbury Street, Stephano stood outside and looked at us through the window. I smiled and shot him with my forefinger. He showed no reaction, and after a time, he walked away.

Z stared at the empty window for a time. Then he looked at me.

“You know,” he said, “this is kind of fun.”

“Except if we get killed,” I said.

“But if we didn’t run that risk,” Z said, “what would be the fun?”

“Christ,” I said. “A philosopher.”

“Well, it’s true. I mean, how exciting would this be if the winner got to capture the fucking flag? You know?”

“You played capture the flag?”

“Indian school,” he said. “When I was little.”

“ ‘Death is the mother of beauty,’” I said.

“What the hell does that mean?” Z said.

“Pretty much what you’re talking about,” I said. “It’s from a poem.”

“Oh,” Z said. “That’s why there’s the part about beauty.”

“You sure you weren’t an English major at Cal Wesleyan?”

“Football,” Z said. “What’s that about death and beauty?”

“If there were no death, how valuable would life be?”

“Yeah,” Z said. “Like supply and demand.”

“It is,” I said. “You got a weapon?”

“Got the .357,” Z said. “And a bowie knife.”

“A bowie knife,” I said.

“I am a Cree Indian,” he said. “The blood of Cree warriors runs in my veins.”

“I’d forgotten that,” I said. “You planning to scalp Stephano?”

“Get a chance and I’ll cut his throat,” Z said. “I’m good with a knife.”

I nodded.

“Time to plow,” I said.

“Plow?” Z said.

“Just an expression, I heard.”

We finished our coffee. I paid the bill for breakfast and we left. There was no sign of Stephano and friends on Newbury Street. I looked at Z; he looked happy.

Maybe he’s getting in touch with his warrior heritage.

I lowered my voice on the assumption that all warriors had deep voices.

“It is a good day to die,” I said.

He glanced at me.

“For who?” he said.

“Old Indian saying.”

“Paleface see-um too many movies,” Z said.

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