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MALE BONDING STRATEGIES

Dew Phillips knocked on Perry’s door.

“Come on in.”

Dew did so and shut the door behind him. Perry Dawsey looked like h.e.l.l. A red and black scalp line ran through his blond hair. Another such line ran down his forehead in an angle from above his left eye almost down to the bridge of his nose. His lips were horribly swollen. The left eye was pure red dotted with a blue iris.

Dawsey was sitting on his bare mattress, elbows resting on his thighs, head hung low. He held a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey American Spirit.

“Where the f.u.c.k did you get that bottle?”

“You get your per diem, I get mine,” Perry said. “Had another bottle in the trunk of the ’Stang, but it broke.”

Dew casually pressed his right arm against his right side, feeling the comforting bulge of the .45 under his jacket. He’d gotten lucky fighting Dawsey, and he wasn’t about to push that luck—if Dawsey attacked, Dew was going to shoot him.

“How you feeling?” Dew asked.

Perry raised his head. The blond hair hung in his face.

“I feel like someone hit me in the head with a table leg,” Perry said. “And the mouth. And back. And thigh. And look at you—I can tell by that little Band-Aid that I really f.u.c.ked up your world.”

Dew’s hand went to the small Band-Aid on his forehead. The cut from hitting the table hadn’t even required a st.i.tch.

“If it’s any consolation,” Dew said, “I can still barely move my arm.”

“Why, do you have arthritis? I didn’t even land a punch.”

“You grazed me,” Dew said. “That’s all it took. Look, I’m not going to lie to you—my patience is at its end. You hurt any more of my men, I’m going to shoot you. If you come at me again, I’m going to shoot you. In the leg if I have time, in the face if I don’t. We need you real bad, but I’m not about to take one for the team, if you catch my drift.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll behave,” Perry said. “You whipped me fair and square.”

Dew marveled at the phrase. It sounded like something Dew would have said in his childhood after a fight. But that had been over fifty years ago. Kids today weren’t like that: they didn’t trade punches, then shake hands and call it good. Nowadays they talked s.h.i.+t and found a gun. Dew felt a surprise spike of admiration for Perry.

“I’d hardly call beating you with a table leg fair,” Dew said.

Perry shrugged. “I outweigh you by like sixty pounds. If I’d got my hands on you, I think I would have killed you. Besides, it doesn’t matter how you win, as long as you win.”

Silence filled the room for a few moments.

“So,” Dew said, “you’re not looking for a rematch?”

Perry stared at the wall for a few seconds, then spoke slowly, thoughtfully.