If a person in civilian clothes had an assault rifle in his hands and was firing it in your direction, that was pretty clear. Shoot the motherfucker. But if he was yelling at you, and his rifle was slung behind him or pointed at the ground, you were supposed to wait until he raised the rifle. He could be local police or a friendly militiaman.
Peter was no longer overseas. He could define his own rules of engagement. And one of Peter’s new rules was that if somebody provoked him, he was going to respond.
He didn’t know who was responsible for the shooter on Jimmy’s block. If it was the man with the scars, Peter had given Lipsky the plate number, and the detective might be persuaded to share that information. And the next time that black Ford showed up, Peter would take action.
But if it was Lewis, Peter knew where to find him. Or at least where to start.
—
Yellow light seeped from the apartment windows of the building on MLK Drive, but the windows in Lewis’s office were dark. The expensive vehicles parked outside earlier that day were nowhere to be seen.
Peter locked Mingus in the cargo box and walked around the corner to Shorty’s. The front door had steel bars and a thick Plexiglas insert starred with what looked like bullet impacts. Or maybe a javelin thrower was using it for target practice. The hinges screeched when he pulled the door open.
Peter took a deep breath and walked inside.
It was Peter’s kind of place, before the static had ruined him for bars. A deep, narrow room, with an exit on the side wall and another door behind the bar. Dark pine paneling lined the walls, the varnish turning a deep orange with age. A row of similar booths made against the outside wall, sparsely populated with neighborhood people, cracked red plastic cushions on the seats and high backs. At the long mahogany bar, a half-dozen older men in worn work clothes slouched on stools, knuckly hands curled protectively around their glasses, eyeballing the newcomer.
This would be a tap beer and boilermaker place, maybe some port wine or cognac for the big spenders. No goat-cheese appetizers, no weird martinis. Just a corner bar owned by a neighborhood warlord. Or whatever Lewis was.
The white static clamored for his attention, but not more than he could stand. Maybe it was the comedown from the shooting, or talking to Lipsky. Maybe it was the anticipation of seeing Lewis, and what that might entail.
Peter wondered what that Navy shrink would say. How fucked up was it that walking inside freaked Peter out, but the prospect of a fistfight or shoot-out calmed him down?
Peter went to the curved end of the bar where he could stand with the room in full view and his back to the wall. An ancient stereo played what sounded like Ray Charles. Unchain my heart. Baby let me go. The barman was built like a bulldog, complete with jowls. He dropped a bar napkin and lifted his eyebrows in a silent question.
Peter said, “I’m looking for Lewis.”
The bartender’s face was empty. “Don’t know who you’re talking about.” But he didn’t move down the bar. He had a fringe of gray on his head, but his arms and shoulders were heavy with muscle. There would be a baseball bat behind the bar within easy reach. Maybe a shotgun, too.
“Get him on the phone,” said Peter. “Tell him there was an accident. The jarhead wants to see him.”
“You want a drink or not?”
“Draft beer.”
“Pabst?”
Peter nodded. The bartender pulled a glass, minimal foam, and set it on the napkin. “Two bucks.”
Peter dropped a few singles on the bar. The bartender scooped up the cash, dropped it in the register, and disappeared through the swinging door into the back room.
The Pabst tasted better than usual.
There was definitely something wrong with him, thought Peter. He’d just been shot at, had killed a man and lied to the cops, and now he was drinking beer like nothing had happened. He thought it should bother him, but mostly it made him angry.
The Navy shrink had told him that being angry was a perfectly normal response to Peter’s experience overseas. War should make you angry. But Peter wasn’t sure how to feel about that, either.
The Marines had put a lot of effort into teaching him how to kill. They didn’t fuck around, they came right out and said it. Your job is to kill the enemy using any means at your disposal. And Peter was good at it. He’d had a lot of practice. He wasn’t complaining. He’d signed up for it. He’d wanted to serve his country. He was a goddamned Marine. He’d have that forever.
But it seemed strange, now that they’d all been to war, after all those years of fighting and killing and bleeding and dying, that they were just supposed to go home and get a job, or go back to school, or whatever.
Strange, definitely.
And even if you’d somehow made it home alive and relatively intact, you still carried it around with you, that powerful mix of pride and shame.
For who you were. For what you’d done.
Peter finished his beer while the static crackled in his head.