“My gun’s a lot smaller.”
“Yeah, and Chuck was a whole lot better lookin’ but you get what I’m sayin’ right?”
“Sure, and it’s duly noted, but I can look after myself.”
Beau gave a rueful shake of his head. “Wish I had a dollar for every time some dumb white boy said that to me. I’d be drivin’ a Cutlass Supreme with Lexani alloys by now instead of a piece a’ shit Toyota.” He leaned forward. “And if I remember correctly, you were damn glad to have my ass coverin’ yours back in the desert.”
Finch didn’t look at him. “I can handle it.”
“Not what I’m sayin’.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying ain’t no man tough enough to fight a war on his own, especially if it’s a personal one and he’s outnumbered. You need my help, you ask.”
“I did ask.” Finch tapped a forefinger on the stack of paper.
“Don’t play dumb with me, man. This ain’t the first time I been sittin’ across from a guy who looked ready to jump headfirst into Hell without an asbestos swimsuit. I knew when I was puttin’ that file together what you were gonna use it for. Think I’m dumb? And I also knew what would happen if I gave it to you.”
“But you gave it to me anyway.”
“Wouldn’t have if I didn’t think you’d just find some other guy to dig it up for you, or go and dig it up yourself. Might have taken a while longer, but the end result would’ve been the same. Besides, like I always said, we look out for each other, and I guess I should be grateful you trusted me with this.” He sighed. “Though somethin’ tells me you callin’ me up has less to do with trust and more to do with convenience.”
Finch shrugged. “Told you in the desert if you went through with the crazy idea of trying to become a P.I. I’d drum up some work for you.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think it’d be this kinda work. Work that could get your ass killed. Shit, if I’d known you had a death wish, I’d have let you die over there and saved us all a lot of trouble.”
It was a joke, and both men knew it, but nevertheless Finch had to suppress the memory it evoked.
“You get your license yet?” he asked.
“Workin’ on it.”
“Should be a cinch. You were always nosy.”
“I prefer to call it curiosity. You know what though? I thought it’d be just a case of applyin’ like you do for a fishin’ license or some shit. Turns out I gotta take classes man. Get myself a diploma. Can you see me tied to a desk listening to some uptight sonofabitch tellin’ me what I already know?”
Finch couldn’t. Beau had a real problem with authority, as evidenced by the amount of sergeants whose blood pressure had suffered an astronomical rise while he’d served under them. “Well, I’ll wait to read these files before I give you my professional opinion on whether or not it’s wise to pursue it.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll try to contain myself until then. ’Course, chances are you’ll be in itty bitty pieces and not worth the price of the bag they stuff you in and all my anxiety will be for nothin’.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Beau laced his fingers together, all trace of humor gone from his voice now. “You gettin’ a clear enough picture here? This ain’t your fight, man.”
Finch appraised him. “They killed my little brother.”
Beau unclasped his large hands and joined them again around the glass of OJ, then brought it to his lips. After a small sip, he lowered it and studied Finch.
“I know they did, and I’m sorry as hell, but—”
“Save it.”
“It’s true.”
“I know it’s true, but I don’t want to hear it. Not from you.” Finch sighed heavily, his fingers caressing the flap of the now empty envelope. “It’s not about bringing him back.”
“Then what is it about? You even know? This here’s a little more than punchin’ out the bullies who been pickin’ on your brother, man. You go down there with your head all muddied up, you ain’t comin’ back in one piece. Or if you do come back alive, you got blood on your hands and you’re lookin’ at hard time. Life, man.”
“If I get caught.”
Beau shook his head. “Prison ain’t the only kinda life sentence. You know that well as I do.”
At the bar, Frat Boy began to argue with himself. The barman told him to keep it down. The gray-haired woman chuckled. Finch decided to use to distraction. “You want a drink?”
Beau nodded at his OJ. “Got one.”
“I meant a real drink.”
“Naw. I ain’t touched it since I got back. Don’t need any help gettin’ fucked up these days. Nice way to change the subject though.”
“There isn’t a whole lot to talk about.”
“You’re shittin’ me, right?”
Finch met his stare. “You know how it goes, Beau. If by some miracle someone decides to look into this, to entertain the possibility that they were wrong about the doctor, and they find out they pinned it on the wrong guy, what happens next?”
“They go after the right guys, and if they catch ’em, they go to jail for a very long time.”
“Exactly: if they catch them. And say they do, say they go to jail, those bastards will probably end up with better lives than they have now. Three square meals a day, rest and exercise, TV—”
“Man, you ain’t never been in one of those shitholes, have you?”
“That’s not the point—”
Again Beau cut him off. “Sure it is. Some of the joints we got over here make Abu Ghraib look like the Waldorf Astoria. A bunch of murderin’ rednecks ain’t gonna have any kind of peace in no jail, man, not after what they did.”
“It’s not enough,” Finch said.
“So what if you kill these motherfuckers and it still ain’t enough. What then?”
“It won’t come to that.”
Beau sat back and sighed. “Whole lotta folks said that same thing before they went to the desert, Finch. All of us said it, and if we weren’t sayin’ it we were thinkin’ it. ‘Not gonna happen to me, man.’ Remember?”
Finch glanced at the bar to avoid the weight of the other man’s gaze. When at last he looked back, Beau had drained his drink and was rising.
“Danny was a good kid,” Beau told him. “A real good kid. Had his head screwed on right.”
Finch nodded his agreement.
Beau stepped out, and took one last look around the bar. “Do yourself a favor though, and don’t use him as an excuse to let loose some of that hate the desert put into you. We saw some real cruel shit over there, and what’s happened here ain’t a whole lot better, but you in danger of dyin’ or spendin’ the rest of your life behind bars or lookin’ for targets if you go through with it.”
Finch started to protest, but Beau raised a hand to silence him.
“I put some other stuff in that file you might want to take a look out before you go headin’ off playin’ Rambo. Read it. See what you think. It ain’t subtle, but hey…you know me. I’ll be down at Rita’s on Third this Sunday after eight. It’s my cousin Kevin’s 21st birthday. We’re throwin’ a little shindig. You ain’t invited because if I see you there I’ll know you’re gonna see this thing through to the end.”
“And if I can’t resist the urge to gatecrash?”
“Then I guess because it’s you and I don’t want to be lookin’ at your ass cut up on the main evenin’ news, I’ll help you, whatever you need. But just so you know: I’ll be hopin’ for a night of family and friends, not vigilantes. Catch you later.”
He walked away, and all faces present turned to watch him go. The gray-haired woman offered him a smile and he returned it, then eased himself out into the street. The door swung shut behind him.
On some level, Finch knew Beau was right, about everything. There were risks here he hadn’t considered, repercussions he couldn’t yet see. But none of it mattered. Reason had no hand in what was going to happen. Rage dictated it all, and no amount of good sense or logical argument was going to change his plans.