in the darkness.
    “She says, Where's that no-dick? The fat one? That worthless no-dick partner of yours couldn't even get it up."
    “That's true."
    They laughed.
    “Pathetic,” Lee said to his partner.
    “Well, shit. She had hair."
    “What the fuck?"
    “Shit, she had more hair on her fuckin’ legs than you do.” They all laughed. “That's no shit."
    “Lying fucks."
    “Hey. Really, man. I still remember that bitch. Big ole’ watermelons like this onner.” Dana gestured in the shadows. “Looked pretty good. Long blond hair. Shit, I didn't know how long. I took her back there and Christ almighty, she's whippin’ those clothes off and here's all this fuckin’ hair under her arms, looked like little black forests growin’ under there. And she had this garter-belt deal, and I can still remember those legs. Nice legs, man, but there's all these old black hairs mashed down under them hose. I go—” He makes a little descending whistle noise that they both recognized and know he is also holding his little finger in front of his fly and letting it droop with the sound effect—Dana's drooping dick schtick.
    “Well,” Lee said, “hair or not, I'da fucked her."
    “BullSHIT!” Dana laughed. “Be like tryin’ to fuck Lyle Alzado.” They laughed. “Really, man. Fuckin’ big shoulders and legs onner. Big old hairy thing. Be like tryin’ to put the pork to Dutch Hornung."
    “Who the fuck is Dutch Hornung?” Lee asked seriously.
    “JESUS, you simple midget, don't you fuckin’ know anything, Paul Hornung, f'r Chrissakes. Don't you—"
    “Lower your voices.” Eichord was laughing. “Come on—shit, these people around here don't know I associate with riffraff like you guys. Come on, let's go back."
    “Who the fuck is Paul Horney?"
    'That guy used to be on the radio.” Dana gave his voice a distinctive inflection, “and that's the way it is, the whole fucking story—"
    “That was Walter Cronkite, goddammit, not that other guy—whatjasay—Dutch Hardon or whoever."
    “Don't you know any fuckin’ thing about sports?"
    “Just submarine racing."
    “Muff diving."
    “The fifty-meter broadchase and leaping humperjump."
    “The three-minute free-hand jerkoff."
    “I took some money.” Lee said, in a cold whisper.
    They stopped.
    “Whatya talkin’ about?” Dana laughed.
    “I took some money. A lot of it."
    “Bullshit.” Not meaning bullshit at all, Dana recognizing the chilly tone.
    Lee was suddenly very sober and serious. “I don't want to talk about it."
    “Uh huh.” Eichord said nothing. They stood there, the three old friends, with their empty glasses in their hands and their withered old-cop dicks in their pants, standing in the darkness of Buckhead Springs.
    “Fuck it."
    “Whatya fuckin’ mean ya took some money, a lot of it?"
    “You know what I mean. You know exactly what I fuckin’ mean. I took money."
    “Don't tell me this shit,” Eichord said, and turned and started back toward the house.
    “It wasn't on the arm—"
    “I don't care. I don't want to hear that crap."
    “I had to, man. It was a LOT of money."
    “How come ya didn't gimme any?” Tuny said to him, half-joking but seriousness in his voice.
    “Want some? I'll give ya some. Then when those butt-sniffers bust me and they make me tell what I did with it, I can bring YOU down too, izzat whatcha want, ya dumb zeppelin?” Butt-sniffers was his name for Internal Affairs cops.
    “You serious.” It wasn't a question.
    “Yeah. Believe it."
    “Who the fuck be dopey enough to give YOU a lotta money?"
    “Nobody GIVE it to me, jackoff. I took it."
    “Where? When?” He sounded like Peggy. Where? When? Who? Hah?
    “At Buckhead Mercantile."
    ’”I'm not hearing this shit,” Eichord said, and he walked back toward the house.


    E ven without his frightening and lethal abilities, a physical precognate—that rarest of the presentient humans—who planned and prepared with the degree of

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