Page 79 of Thug

“You’re a couple weeks late.” He pushed his thumb against the brim of his straw cowboy hat, lifting it enough that I could see his eyes. “Nearly three, I think.”

I stepped off the bike and stretched my legs. “For what?”

“Dinner.” He opened the door completely and waved his hand toward the vast space behind him. “That hog’s long gone.”

I followed him as he shuffled into the living room. The rear of the home was fitted with as many windows as the front, all of which gave a spectacular view of the distant mountains.

He turned toward the massive kitchen behind him. “What’ll you have?”

“Excuse me?”

“To drink?” he asked.

“Water, thank you.”

He laughed. “I’m having single malt scotch. You sure you don’t want to reconsider?”

The living room was a comfortable looking space. An earth tone couch and two matching loveseats faced the mountains. Four oversized chairs were on the other side of the room, situated between the windows. The walls were adorned with painted pictures of mountains, men on horses, and southwestern-themed art. On the far wall, opposite the kitchen’s direction, was a large built-in bookcase that was filled with books, photographs, and television.

“I’ll have the same,” I said.

He returned in a moment with two glasses of scotch. He handed me one and then faced the windows. “We gonna stand here and stare at that wall?” He sipped his whisky. “Or, are we gonna have a seat?” He looked at me. “Only got so many minutes of standing left in me, and I ain’t sure if I want to spend ‘em in this exact spot.”

I laughed. “We can sit.”

He took a seat on the sofa, and I sat on the loveseat beside him. He was dressed similarly to the day we met. Wearing a faded blue and white plaid pearl-snap long-sleeved shirt and faded jeans, he looked like he could have been teleported to the 1800’s and not been questioned about his wardrobe.

After a few sips of his whisky, he set the glass aside. “You gonna start talkin’, or am I?”

“I suppose I will.”

I felt out of place and didn’t really know where to start. I’d decided I had no other option than to go to an outsider. The list of outsiders I felt I could trust was sitting on my right. It should have been simple.

I felt like a traitor. “Gott a be honest,” I said. “Seems kind of strange being here. Talking to you.”

“Haven’t said a damned thing yet. Maybe that’s the problem.” He reached for his whisky. “Women problems, men problems, or you want to talk about your folks?”

“All three, actually,” I replied. “But not in that order.”

I needed to be convinced he was who he said he was before I confided in him regarding my personal life.

“You dad was one of a kind,” he said. “Man lived by a series of principles that all men should adhere to. If you can’t speak the truth, don’t speak. He told me that once, and it stuck. If a word ever came out of Earl’s mouth, it was the truth. Oftentimes he didn’t say anything, or he’d leave a handful of information out of a story he told, but he never lied.”

“He raised me the same way.”

“To be honest?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

My struggle with honesty was what brought me to Cactus Jack’s. I found it ironic that his conversation began with the subject.

He raised his glass of whisky in toast. “Never point a gun at something unless you’re—”

“Prepared to shoot it,” I said.

He glanced at me and grinned. “He tell you the difference between being prepared to and being ready?”

“He did.”