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He rolled the tobacco into a tight cylinder, wet down the glued seam, and crimped the edges. He lifted his eyes up to mine. They looked as lidless, as reptilian and liquid as a chameleon’s. He popped a match aflame on his thumbnail. It was as thick and purple as tortoise shell.
“You like my face?” he asked.
“What’s your name?”
“Vic.”
“Vic what?”
“Vic Who-gives-a-shit? One name’s as good as another, I figure.”
“How about giving me your last name?”
“Benson.”
“How’d you get hurt, podna?”
He put his cigarette in the hole where his lips were pared away at the corner of his mouth. He blew smoke out toward the bars. “In a tank,” he said.
“You were in the service?”
“That’s right.”
“Where’d you serve?”
“Korea.”
“Your tank got nailed?”
“You got it.”
“Where in Korea?”
“Second day, at Heartbreak Ridge. What’s all this stuff about?”
“There’re some people who say they’ve seen a man with your description looking through their windows.”
“Yeah? Must be my twin brother.” He laughed, and saliva welled up on his gum.
“There’s a preacher in Baton Rouge who thinks a man who looks like you might be his father.”
“I had a son once. But I didn’t raise no preacher.”
“You ever hear of a woman called Mattie?”
He took his cigarette carefully off his lip and tipped the ashes between his knees.
“Did you hear me, podna?” I said.
His eyes regarded me quietly.
“You guys got nothing else to do except this kind of stuff?” he asked.
“Did you know a woman named Mattie?”
“No, I didn’t.”
He picked at a scab inside his wasted forearm.
