“Something like that,” Peter admitted.
Lipsky nodded. “Let’s take a little inventory here,” he said, ticking off each item on his fingers. “One, you’re sleeping in your truck. Which has a broken window, and some bullet holes, let me add, so its usefulness as a homeless shelter is dropping fast. Two, you’re doing pickup carpentry in a shit neighborhood, so I know you’re going broke if you’re not there already. Three, you’re getting into fights with strangers, although at least you seem to be winning. Then there’s number four, the personal-hygiene thing. Generally a problem when you’re homeless. Can I ask how long has it been since you had a shower? And walking through a car wash doesn’t count.”
Peter could see Lipsky’s point. But Lipsky didn’t have the whole story, and Peter wasn’t about to tell it. Lipsky could think what he wanted.
Peter opened the back of his truck and climbed up for his duffel. “I do have a change of clothes,” he said, peeling off his wet shirt and pants. Not sure why he felt the need to explain himself. The photo of Jimmy in his pocket had gotten damp, too. He dried it gently and laid it down where he wouldn’t forget it.
“That’s good,” said Lipsky, peering past him into the box. Peter could practically feel him cataloging the contents. “Otherwise you’d freeze to death. Which reminds me. I think I found you a new driver’s-side window. At some car graveyard in Mobile, Alabama.”
Peter turned to look at him, halfway into his last pair of clean pants.
Lipsky shrugged. “A guy I know runs a salvage yard,” he said. “All this shit’s on the Web now, it took him about five minutes. I’m getting it at cost. It’ll be here in a couple days.”
Peter stared at him. “Why would you do that? You don’t know anything about me.”
“Here’s the thing,” said Lipsky. “Maybe I do. Just a little.”
While Peter put on a clean white shirt, and tucked the photo into his breast pocket, Lipsky turned away to lean on Peter’s truck. Looking out at the parking lot, he took a pack of gum out of his pocket, selected a stick, and stripped off the wrapper.
“When I got my discharge from the Rangers—this was ’93—I was seriously fucked up,” he said, as if to nobody in particular. “Somalia killed about a dozen of my closest friends. Then Iraq—I got there months before Desert Storm. My unit was on foot in the desert, spotting targets. The Republican Guard I met didn’t have their hands up.”
Lipsky shook his head. “They teach you to kill, but they don’t teach you to forget. That’s what bourbon’s for, right? I saw some bad shit over there. Hell, I did some bad shit. When I got home, I was lost. Couldn’t sleep. Drinking with both hands. Ready to do some damage, if only to myself.”
He sighed. “Anyway, my stepdad was a cop. A real hard-ass bastard. But he got me into the academy. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise. It gave me something to do, something to focus on. Something useful. I can’t say it plainer, the man saved me.”
Lipsky watched the dog poke his nose into the bushes, then turned to Peter with his pale X-ray eyes. “Now you,” he said. “You’re the only suspect I have in that killing on Sixteenth Street. I can’t prove you did it, but hey, I know you did. Personally, I don’t give a shit one way or another. I figure you had a good reason. Guy with an assault rifle hosing down a residential street. Somebody had to stop him. That’s reason enough for me. He lost his right to due process the minute he pulled the trigger.”
What do you say to that? A police detective telling you he knows you killed a man and doesn’t care? Peter didn’t know what to say.
So he kept his mouth shut.
“But here’s the damn thing, kid. You can’t just kill people,” said Lipsky, seeing right through him. “You can’t. That’s not a way to behave, back in the world. I don’t know what you’re into, or what happened over there, but it has to stop. You need a new mission. So I can put you in jail. Or I can put you to work. Your choice.”
Mingus wandered the parking lot, watering the light posts. Lipsky kept talking.
“I know a group works with returning veterans.” He scratched his chin. “It’s kind of raggedy-ass, no money to speak of. They have a building not far from here. I don’t know what they’ve got to offer, maybe some job training, basic construction skills, stuff like that. But I’m thinking you could maybe teach some of those classes. Talk to some of those guys. And they have showers, a kitchen, some bunks set up for guys who don’t have anywhere to stay. Some good guys,” he said. “Even some jarheads.”
“Okay,” said Peter.
“Okay?” said Lipsky. “You’re not just blowing smoke up my ass?”