The Hemingway Thief by Shaun Harris

am?”
    â€œWhat about the posthumous works of Toulouse Velour,” he said. “I was starting to come around to that.”
    â€œIt’ll have to go on the back burner.”
    â€œI want you to come home,” Ox said. “Come home and we’ll sort this out.”
    â€œNot yet,” I said. “The book’s not finished.”
    â€œCan’t you just make it all up?”
    â€œSeems a little dishonest.”
    â€œYou’re a novelist,” Ox said. “Your whole job is dishonesty.”
    â€œStill,” I said. There was a sucking sound on the other end of the line. Ox was a nail biter.
    â€œYou really think it’s a bestseller?” he said through a mouthful of cuticle. I told him I did. “And you won’t tell me about it?”
    â€œIf I told you now, you’d have to up your Xanax prescription,” I said, and hung up. I looked down at the small puddle of blood that had formed on the bench. Jesus, how the head bleeds.

Chapter Ten
    Grady was sitting at the bottom of the stairs with a bottle of Patrón. A shot glass, filled to the brim, sat next to him on the uneven wooden step.
    â€œI thought we were out of Patrón?” I said.
    â€œPrivate stash,” Grady said, and took a swig out of the bottle.
    â€œIs that shot for me?”
    â€œNo. That’s the reserve. So I don’t drink the whole bottle.”
    â€œMaybe you should keep yourself straight, seeing as though there’s a lot of shit going on right now,” I said.
    â€œSo Thandy was a gunrunner?” he said. He had been listening to the whole conversation. It was my own fault for not securing the booth’s door, letting it hang open an inch or two. Maybe it was an invasion of privacy, but on the bright side I wouldn’t have to repeat the whole conversation for Grady. He stood up and leaned against the wall, tipping his head against the plaster. The tequila was working its agave magic on him. “Come on. Let’s get some answers.”
    â€œYou think Milch’ll tell us the truth?” I said. Grady blinked slowly; so slowly he may have taken a nap.
    â€œI do,” he said. He turned on the step, using the back of his head as a pivot against the wall.
    â€œWhat are you going to do?”
    â€œCouple of things the ACLU probably wouldn’t approve of,” he said. He marched up the stairs with inebriated determination.
    Digby waited for us at the top of the stairs. His gun belt was on and the large revolver hung at his hip.
    â€œDoc’s gone into town to visit his girlfriend. I don’t think he’ll be back tonight,” he said. Doc had never mentioned a girlfriend before, and the “town” he spoke of was really just a collection of trailers huddled around a church. I didn’t blame him. If I had stopped and thought about it, which is something I had seldom done on this adventure, I would have been looking for an exit as well.
    â€œOK,” Grady said, and started for the door. Digby stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
    â€œAnd Milch tried to leave,” Digby said.
    â€œWhen was this?” Grady asked. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at the cut that ran under his jawline.
    â€œJust after you left,” Digby said. “Thought it was odd, seeing as though he was supposed to be too banged up to travel. I mean that was the whole reason you went instead, right?”
    â€œYeah,” Grady said. He used the bloody handkerchief to wipe the sweat off of his face. “What stopped him?”
    â€œApparently his distributor cap went missing,” Digby said.
    â€œWhat the hell is a distributor cap?” I asked. Digby brought his hand from behind his back. In a red-and-white striped handkerchief, he was holding a black metal cylinder with five small metal tubes jutting out on one side.
    â€œThis is a distributor cap,” he said with a wink, and stepped inside Milch’s