Prodigal Blues

"Sounds like he's a cautious man."

"He's a worrier, like I said.  And a worrier's just a cautious man with way too many backup plans, if you ask me."

"I'll remember that—and I won't tell Uncle Herb that you let on about his cyberphobia."

"His what?"

"Fear of computers or anything related to them.  Cyberphobia."

"That's what it's called?"

"Yep."

"Huh.  I never knew that."  Then she smiled, slowly, with great mischief.  "Now I got something to call him that'll confuse him."

"Or make him worry that he needs to see a doctor fast."

We looked at each other and laughed, right up until a loud, metallic crash from somewhere back in the kitchen made Beth close her eyes for a moment, wincing, then open just her right eye and shudder.  "That would be my less-than-coordinated husband bringing in supplies—or what's left of them by now.  Be right back."  She disappeared through the swinging doors, still laughing.  I wondered if anything ever made her genuinely angry.

Judging from the way her laughter grew louder, then was joined by her husband's, even money said no.

I tore into the onion rings—which were delicious, and surprisingly light—and was just finishing off the Pepsi refill when a stocky, white-haired man of perhaps sixty-five with rugged features came through the doors wiping off his hands on a towel.  He reminded me of Burt Lancaster in Atlantic City, except that this man had no moustache.

"I swear on Lawrence Welk's bubbly grave that that nephew of mine would drop a consonant if you super-glued it to his hand.  Don't get me wrong, I love 'im, but physical prowess is not that boy's strong point."  He slammed open a cooler door and pulled out a bottle of beer.  "We got a set of delivery doors, right, that're wide enough you could drive a small car straight through them and not bump either of the side mirrors—they give a body a wide berth, is what I'm saying—yet Jim Thorpe back there manages to walk sideways into one of them and drop the handle of the supply cart right onto a box of brand new pots and pans, then trip over his own two feet and fall ass-first into the grease barrel."  He popped the cap of bottle.  "That requires some serious skill."  He took a couple of swallows from the beer, wiped his forearm across his mouth, then slapped the bottle onto the bar and said, "And you are?"

"Uncle Herb, I take it?"

"No, Uncle Herb would be me, and since today is one of my good days and I remember who I am, I guess that means we're talking about you, so once again I ask:  and you are?"

I pulled out the badge and said, "Chief Deputy Samuel Gerard of the U.S. Marshal's Office."

Uncle Herb looked at the badge, then at my face.  "Well, I'll be damned.  A genuine U.S. Marshal, right here in my own place of business.  Nice badge."

"Thanks," I said, putting the wallet back in my pocket.

"You know," said Uncle Herb, "it's a real shame they don't let you guys keep them badges after you retire."

"I always thought so."

He took another sip of his beer.  "What's a U.S. Marshal do when he retires, anyway?  I mean, how does a guy like that get away from it all once he's got time?"

"I'm quite a few years away from retirement, so I haven't given it much thought."

"That's a shame," he said, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.  "Because I got a feeling your career's about to come to an abrupt end."  He flipped open the wallet to show me a gold badge exactly like the one I'd shown him.  "When I said that about not being able to keep your badge after retirement, I lied."

"I get that now."  I rubbed my eyes.  "Oh, shit…."

Uncle Herb replaced his wallet, then leaned on the bar toward me.  "You probably can't see them too well from here, Mr. Tommy Lee Jones—by the way, I thought you deserved your Oscar for that movie, but damn if you don't look a thing in real life like you did up on that screen—anyway, you can't see 'em from here, but a couple of those pool players back there are State Police.  Andy and Barney—yes, those are their real names and no, I wouldn't make Mayberry or Floyd the barber jokes around them if I was you.  They come in here every night right after their shift finishes and play a couple of games.  Says it helps them relax, and trust me, Andy and Barney are a couple of real tense guys.  Now, unless you can give me one goddamned good reason why I shouldn't call them over here and have your ass arrested right here and now, then your day's about to have a crimp put into it.  You got any idea what the penalty is for impersonating a Federal officer?—don't bother answering that, it wasn't a real question."  He finished off his beer, opened another one.  "I usually take about five minutes to finish off my second beer, son.  You got until then to convince me that you shouldn't spend the next forty years of your life in prison being ass-candy for a big cranky guy named Bubba."  He lifted the bottle to his lips.  "Clock's ru

I said the first thing that came into my mind.  "I found John and Ellen Matthews' son."

Uncle Herb paused with the bottle almost to his mouth.  "Christopher?"  He lowered the bottle.  "You telling me that you found Christopher Matthews?"

"Yes, sir."

He nodded, then sipped his beer.  "You want a refill on that Pepsi or maybe something stronger?  I'm buying."

"That's awfully nice of you, considering."

"Considering that you're still in spitting range of being Bubba's pillow-biter?  Not all that nice."  He handed me a beer.  "The cap twists off but I like to pop 'em.  Seems more macho, the way Hemingway'd do it, if you ask me.  Ever read Hemingway?  Man could make a semicolon seem like it had an overload of testosterone."  He found a stool behind the bar and pulled it up to sit directly across from me.  "What's your real name?"

"Mark."

"Got a last name or are you one of them one-name wonders like Mado

"I've got a last name.  I'd rather not tell you what it is."

He stared at me for several seconds, then said:  "All right, I'll let you keep it to yourself for the moment, but understand:  I've got a Bulldog .44 within easy reach, you try to dart on me, Mark No-Last-Name-For-The-Moment and I will not hesitate to shoot you in the back of the leg."

"I believe you."

"Fine.  I'm guessing from that addition to your nose and all them other decorations on your face—not to mention the blood on your shirt that you think that jacket's covering up—that you haven't had the best couple of days."

"No, sir, I haven't."  And I proceeded to tell him about what had happened since yesterday.  I was about a third of the way through it when he said, "Indiana."

"What?"

He slapped the bar with his open hand.  "Son-of-a-bitch!  I must be getting old—any other time I'd've made the co

My stomach and throat tried changing places.  "You've heard something about Arnold and Rebecca?"

"Is that what their names are?  News reports didn't say."

I reached out and grabbed his forearm.  "Is the girl all right?  Did the reports say—?"