aren’t for me. No, the 12-gauges are boss. In fact, one night before the Chosin Reservoir campaign, I lit a blowtorch to crop off the barrel to a 12-gauge—”
“I’ll just go and get rid of these cans,” I said, not up for listening to any war stories. I went down to the shore and slung the bag to splat into Lake Charles. By the time of my return, Mr. Kuzawa had cracked open and drained a third of the whiskey bottle, giving his eyes a spooky radioactive glint. I got the bone-chilling impression that he viewed us as a pair of leathernecks back fighting it out on the Chosin Reservoir.
“Did this big bug kidnap Edna?”
“She vanished from the same area, and I found her barrette lying in their campsite.”
“Don’t let it drive you nuts, son. We’ll soon evacuate her.” He chambered a 00-buckshot load into his 12-gauge.
As we took off again, I forced a self-deprecating chuckle. “I feel ridiculous marching through the boonies armed like two vigilantes.”
“We’ll be the rangers.”
“No-no, uh-uh. We’re nothing like them,” I said, knowing their leader Cullen didn’t let rational thinking govern his often rash actions. We had to be smarter than he was.
“We’re not near the campsite, are we?” asked Mr. Kuzawa.
“Two hours walking. You know, I fixed Cobb’s killer. He’d no I.D. on him, but he’s dead.”
“A commendable action and you’ve my thanks, but this big bug gave the orders. So now I’ll go squash the big bug.”
“Kill him?” I arched a hard glance at him.
He gave me a nod. “I’m trembling to explode with rage, and I can’t pull out even if I tried. Are you with me or not?”
“All right.” I waved at him to press on. “I’m behind you.”
“That’s all I wanted to hear from you.”
Lake Charles was our visible landmark as we crossed a hilly pine forest. Soon the trunks and boulders clarified in the gathering daylight, and a great horned owl, all wings, swooped down at us. Mr. Kuzawa laughed at my cowering. The laurel branches slashed at our pumping thighs, and skirting the boulders slowed our progress. At last, Mr. Kuzawa gave a shout.
“Whoa, Brendan. Take five, son. Going at this clip, I’ll keel over from a coronary.”
“Blame it on the elevation.” I bent over at the waist, bracing my hands on my knees, my lungs also a wheezing bellows. “The oxygen runs thinner up here.”
“Uh-huh. Never mind I don’t look a day over fifty-five or your pack-a-day habit.”
“Don’t slam my cigarettes. Their tar counteracts the ink fumes eating away at my lung tissue.”
“Sure, you’re the Six Million Dollar Man.” Mr. Kuzawa shrugged back his bullish shoulders. “Is there less backstabbing at work? Cobb didn’t seem to think so.”
“Things could always be better. Brothers still don’t speak, but the past three years we’ve done well enough to turn a profit and get our annual bonus. You’ve got to like that.”
“That strike took place—what was it?—twenty-odd years ago. The outside agitators were behind it. Pierre Spartacus split Umpire down the middle. The sides drew up, and it was a local war.” Jutting his chin, Mr. Kuzawa scoffed. “What a waste. Why do the stubborn pressmen still fight that battle? Let bygones be bygones, I’d say to them.”
My cynical glance saw him nod. Longerbeam Printery wasn’t a jewel of a job, but I worked there, and he hadn’t for years. What did he know about it? The bitter, deep rancor would never let up. Some men were born to bear grudges. The strike ended before I was born, but I had to work in its ugly aftermath, not much fun on some days.
“Rested up?” I was on my feet.
He motioned with his 12-gauge to usher me off down the swale made a streambed in rainy April. My two-fisted grip to my 12-gauge didn’t let up. The .44s in my pockets hit my thighs. Perspiration oiled my palms, and I wiped them on my bandana. My hand sweats were a detox by-product, and I would probably never get over the
“I’ll just go and get rid of these cans,” I said, not up for listening to any war stories. I went down to the shore and slung the bag to splat into Lake Charles. By the time of my return, Mr. Kuzawa had cracked open and drained a third of the whiskey bottle, giving his eyes a spooky radioactive glint. I got the bone-chilling impression that he viewed us as a pair of leathernecks back fighting it out on the Chosin Reservoir.
“Did this big bug kidnap Edna?”
“She vanished from the same area, and I found her barrette lying in their campsite.”
“Don’t let it drive you nuts, son. We’ll soon evacuate her.” He chambered a 00-buckshot load into his 12-gauge.
As we took off again, I forced a self-deprecating chuckle. “I feel ridiculous marching through the boonies armed like two vigilantes.”
“We’ll be the rangers.”
“No-no, uh-uh. We’re nothing like them,” I said, knowing their leader Cullen didn’t let rational thinking govern his often rash actions. We had to be smarter than he was.
“We’re not near the campsite, are we?” asked Mr. Kuzawa.
“Two hours walking. You know, I fixed Cobb’s killer. He’d no I.D. on him, but he’s dead.”
“A commendable action and you’ve my thanks, but this big bug gave the orders. So now I’ll go squash the big bug.”
“Kill him?” I arched a hard glance at him.
He gave me a nod. “I’m trembling to explode with rage, and I can’t pull out even if I tried. Are you with me or not?”
“All right.” I waved at him to press on. “I’m behind you.”
“That’s all I wanted to hear from you.”
Lake Charles was our visible landmark as we crossed a hilly pine forest. Soon the trunks and boulders clarified in the gathering daylight, and a great horned owl, all wings, swooped down at us. Mr. Kuzawa laughed at my cowering. The laurel branches slashed at our pumping thighs, and skirting the boulders slowed our progress. At last, Mr. Kuzawa gave a shout.
“Whoa, Brendan. Take five, son. Going at this clip, I’ll keel over from a coronary.”
“Blame it on the elevation.” I bent over at the waist, bracing my hands on my knees, my lungs also a wheezing bellows. “The oxygen runs thinner up here.”
“Uh-huh. Never mind I don’t look a day over fifty-five or your pack-a-day habit.”
“Don’t slam my cigarettes. Their tar counteracts the ink fumes eating away at my lung tissue.”
“Sure, you’re the Six Million Dollar Man.” Mr. Kuzawa shrugged back his bullish shoulders. “Is there less backstabbing at work? Cobb didn’t seem to think so.”
“Things could always be better. Brothers still don’t speak, but the past three years we’ve done well enough to turn a profit and get our annual bonus. You’ve got to like that.”
“That strike took place—what was it?—twenty-odd years ago. The outside agitators were behind it. Pierre Spartacus split Umpire down the middle. The sides drew up, and it was a local war.” Jutting his chin, Mr. Kuzawa scoffed. “What a waste. Why do the stubborn pressmen still fight that battle? Let bygones be bygones, I’d say to them.”
My cynical glance saw him nod. Longerbeam Printery wasn’t a jewel of a job, but I worked there, and he hadn’t for years. What did he know about it? The bitter, deep rancor would never let up. Some men were born to bear grudges. The strike ended before I was born, but I had to work in its ugly aftermath, not much fun on some days.
“Rested up?” I was on my feet.
He motioned with his 12-gauge to usher me off down the swale made a streambed in rainy April. My two-fisted grip to my 12-gauge didn’t let up. The .44s in my pockets hit my thighs. Perspiration oiled my palms, and I wiped them on my bandana. My hand sweats were a detox by-product, and I would probably never get over the
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