Don't Ever Get Old by Daniel Friedman

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    Pratt stood as we entered.
    â€œHowdy,” he said. “I reckon you don’t mind if I call you Buck?”
    I looked him over. Deep-set, piggy eyes; greasy hair. Brown teeth piled on top of each other. I’d have suspected methamphetamine use if he weren’t forty pounds overweight. I made him for a two-bit shakedown artist. With the heater strapped against my ribs, I felt like myself again, more than I had in years. If I went at Pratt hard, I could cow the son of a bitch.
    â€œSit your ass down,” I told him, and he did.
    I leaned over his desk, narrowed my eyes, and curled my lip to show him my own teeth, which were nicotine stained but still looked much better than his.
    â€œThirty-five years ago, I’d have put a bullet through your head, told folks you had it coming, and nobody would have said any different,” I told him.
    Pratt didn’t flinch. “This ain’t thirty-five years ago, partner,” he said. “Your friends up and died on you, and Tunica is my town.”
    I glared at him, and he glared right back.
    â€œSo, how’s about you take a seat there, Buck, and stop breathin’ old-man stink on me.”
    Used to be, I’d have had a quick retort for him, but when I started to cuss at him some more, it was like my throat was stuffed with cotton balls. Side effect, damn it, of all the pills I take.
    I opened my mouth, and closed it, and opened my mouth again, like a fish flopping in the bottom of a boat, but the only words that sprang to mind were some things my doctor had said about signs of cognitive impairment among the elderly.
    I reached, reflexively, for my memory notebook, but I felt, instead, the weight of the gat, snug against my side, underneath my jacket, and I had a sudden and powerful urge to let it do the talking for me; to just cave in Pratt’s whole damn face around those tangled teeth and those mean, beady eyes; to empty his skull onto the cinder-block wall. I knew, though, that wasn’t a good play. It would create more problems than it solved.
    So I chose the path of restraint and just punched him in the nose. It wasn’t much of a punch. My shoulder didn’t seem to rotate like it was supposed to. My back didn’t twist right to put my weight behind the follow-through. The bicep couldn’t snap the arm out.
    He took the punch like he was leaning into a warm spring breeze, and then he smirked at me. I stared, dumbstruck, at my fist. My fingers and knuckles were already blue black, and the whole back of my hand was turning purple.
    â€œYou got that out of your system now, Mr. Buck?” Pratt asked.
    I didn’t have anything to say, but Tequila filled the silence.
    â€œPratt, you haven’t got a claim against us. We’ve made no agreement to assume Mr. Kind’s obligations, and Mr. Kind had no interest in any property we possess. Your only recourse as a creditor is against Mr. Kind’s estate, which is no concern of ours.”
    Tequila always spoke with a kind of precise, uninflected diction. He didn’t sound like Memphis, but he didn’t sound like New York either. His speech sounded kind of haughty, like he thought he was too good to have come from any particular place. Directed at Pratt, though, Tequila’s manner lent him an air of authority, like he was a psychologist talking to a disturbed child.
    Pratt broke eye contact with me and smirked at Tequila. “Now, is that a fact?”
    â€œI can tell you, if you try to go into court, you won’t be able to obtain relief against us. We’re not responsible for anyone else’s gambling debt.”
    â€œOh.” Pratt nodded. “Well, let me tell you something, Mister New York City. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with no court. You find yourself, at this moment, in Mississippi, and around these parts, whatever claim I say I have, folks take serious, and whatever responsibilities I say folks have, they find they are