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His teeth were like tombstones when he grinned.
“You do it in bursts, don't you?” he said. His voice was low, full of grit, like a man with throat cancer. “Me, too.”
His shoulder was inches away, the steady pat-pat-pat-pat of his tennis shoes in rhythm with mine, even the steady intake and exhalation of his breath now part of mine. He wrapped his towel over his head and knotted it under his chin.
“How you doin'?” I said.
“Great. You ever run on the grinder at Quantico?” He turned his face to me. The eyes were cavernous, like chunks of lead shot.
“No, I wasn't in the Corps,” I said.
“I knew a guy looked like you. That's why I asked.”
I didn't answer. Out over the salt a single-engine plane was flying out of the sun, its wings tilting and bouncing hard in the wind.
“Were you at Benning?” the man said.
“Nope.”
“I know you from somewhere.”
“I don't think so.”
“Maybe it was Bragg. No, I remember you now. Saigon, sixty-five.
Bring Cash Alley. You could get on the pipe and laid for twenty bucks.
Fucking A, I never forget a face.”
I slowed to a walk, breathing hard, my chest running with sweat. He slowed with me.
“What's the game, partner?” I said.
“It's a small club. No game. A guy with two Hearts is a charter member in my view.” He pulled his towel off his head and mopped his face with it, then offered it to me. I saw Bootsie's Toyota headed down the road toward us.
I backed away from him, my eyes locked on his.
“You take it easy, now,” I said.
“You too, chief. Try a liquid protein malt. It's like wrapping copper wire around your nuts, really puts an edge on your run.”
I heard Bootsie brake behind me. I got in the passenger seat beside her. My bare back left a dark wet stain on the seat.
“Dave, put on your shirt,” she said.
“Le
t's go.”
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She glanced in the rearview mirror. The man with the tan cannon-ball head was mopping the inside of his thighs with the towel.
“Yuck,” she said. “Who's that?”
“I have a feeling I just met Mr. Emile Pogue,” I answered.
