Page 72 of Rigid

“PTSD. Said I was a threat to my fellow Marines.”

“Damned shame,” I said. “Couple of the patches are vets, and they’ve got PTSD, too. Sucks.”

He shoved a handful of French fries in his mouth and nodded. “I deal with it different than most, I suppose.”

“What do you do to deal with it?”

He grabbed another handful of fries. “Go to the range.”

“I shot him a surprised look. “That’s it?”

“Flying bullets make me happy.”

I couldn’t decide if his response made me nervous or not. “Suppose it depends on which direction they’re going.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Whether they’re coming at you, or going away from you.”

“Shit,” he said. “I’ll take ‘em either way.”

“I prefer the ones that aren’t flying in my direction.”

“Either way’s exciting.” He nodded toward my pistol. “See you carry a piece. Gives me peace of mind knowing that.”

“Gives me peace of mind, too.” I slapped my hand against my pocket. “Just like the American Express Card. Don’t leave home without it.”

“I’m with ya on that.”

Tank was in his late twenties by my guess, and had spent ten years in the military, all of which was in combat. He was average height, and way above average size, hence the name Tank. His head – still sporting a military crew cut – seemed to sit on top of his muscular shoulders, and he didn’t have the “V” shape that most men sought. He was simply big. And muscular.

One of his massive biceps was adorned with the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor, and the other was tattooed with what I suspected was his unit number, and several names.

I assumed the names were of Marines lost in combat, but didn’t ask.

“Soon as your done finger fucking those fries, we’ll go check on that job,” I said. “See if my guy’s done with it or not.”

“How many jobs you do at once?” he asked.

“Depends. Sometimes one, sometimes five or six. Right now, Cholo’s keeping me pretty busy with a few, and I’ve got a couple others that I’m doing. Need as many as I can, though. Got a kid on the way and all.”

“That chick move in yet?”

“Nope. We’re moving her this weekend.”

“Need any help?”

“We got it covered.”

“I’m serious.” He flexed his bicep. “I love liftin’ heavy shit.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

I’d always said you could tell who your real friends were by who showed up on moving day, and the fact he offered made me feel good about him being a solid dude.

He grabbed another fistful of fries, and bit the tips off half of them in one bite. “If you decide you need some help, I’m serious. Just give me a holler.”

“Will do.”