Don't Ever Get Old by Daniel Friedman Page A

responsible. And if and when we do go to court, all the judges ‘round these parts know who butters their biscuits, and it sure as shit ain’t y’all. I am going to collect my money, and that’s just that.”
    I sat and shushed Tequila just as he was starting to say something else. Talking law to this Mississippi swamp beast was like preaching the gospel to the back end of a horse, but my grandson had bought me the precious seconds I needed to shake off my senility and come up with a plan of some sort.
    â€œFine,” I said, holding my throbbing hand. “I’m too old to futz around with you. When they find the treasure, you can have whatever my share would have been.”
    This surprised him. “When who finds it?”
    â€œThe Israelis.”
    â€œWhat Israelis?”
    â€œDidn’t you know? All those Nazi assets were stolen from Jews in the war, so they go back to Israel when they’re recovered. If you find it, the Israelis just pay you a small commission.”
    His face slackened. “Huh?”
    â€œTurns out they pay you the same if you just tip them off as they do for actually hauling in the damn gold, ain’t that right?”
    â€œUh, yeah. International Convention for the Recovery of Stolen Assets,” Tequila lied. “Codified in federal statute. Your lawyers can look it up.”
    â€œSo we just called up the Israeli embassy. They sent a man over to take care of it,” I told him. “An Israeli government agent by the name of Yitzchak Steinblatt. Can’t miss him, he’s real big, with a big beard. That’s who is hunting the treasure.”
    â€œNo,” said Pratt. “No, Kind said you were the one going after that.”
    â€œYou’ve never been lied to by someone who owed you money?” Tequila asked.
    Pratt thought on that for a second.
    â€œShit.”
    He didn’t have much else to say, so I maneuvered out the door as quickly as I could. I wanted to open up some distance between myself and Mississippi, but Tequila insisted on putting twenty bucks in a slot machine.
    â€œAs long as we’re down here, we might as well try our luck,” he said.
    I crossed my arms. “I want to leave now.”
    He stared at me with eyes full of contempt. “I’m your ride, and we’ll go when I say we go.”
    So he spent fifteen minutes tugging a lever. The guy at the next machine was two hundred and seventy-five pounds of mean, wrapped in black leather and prison tattoos, and my grandson didn’t even seem to notice. I watched both our backs with my hand stuffed inside my jacket, clutching the butt of the .357.
    Tequila kept a blank expression as he watched the reels spin. I wondered if his sheltered upbringing had retarded his ability to comprehend danger in this place, in this situation.
    He pulled the lever again, and the game took his money. He punched it, annoyed.
    The guy with the prison ink glanced away from his own machine to eyeball Tequila.
    â€œHope you have better luck,” Tequila told him.
    As we walked out into the parking lot, I explained for my grandson’s benefit that Pratt had undoubtedly been watching us the whole time we’d been in there on the casino’s security feed.
    â€œDon’t you think I know that?” Tequila growled at me. He stopped walking and crossed his arms. “How does it help us if he looks at that monitor and sees us bolting for the door like frightened rabbits?”
    â€œIt ain’t safe here. Under the circumstances, we’re better off getting far away from this place,” I told him, flicking my lighter. “You let me do the thinking for us. I have the experience.”
    â€œI don’t trust your thinking, Grandpa,” he said, furrowing his eyebrows and leaning forward, forcing himself into my space. “Your thinking brought us out here, because your thinking was that you could tell this guy how things work in his own