The Whole Truth by James Scott Bell

little home away from home.”
    â€œOh yeah? Where’s home?”
    â€œLater, Steve. One step at a time.”
    The inside smelled of beer and cigars. Like a Saturday-night poker game. On a sofa in the living room sat the guy who’d given Steve the five thousand dollars in the law library. He stood up.
    â€œHey, Neal, here’s my baby brother,” Johnny said.
    Neal shook Steve’s hand. “Good to see you again.”
    â€œLikewise.”
    The room was small with several chairs scattered around. Reminded Steve a little of recovery meetings. On the mantel above a stone fireplace hung a wooden cross.
    â€œThis is where we hold some meetings,” Johnny said. “Helping guys get back on their feet. Like me.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œWe get some pretty messed-up people in here. We may not be what most people think of when it comes to a church, but God isn’t finished with us yet.”
    â€œHey, doesn’t the Bible say, ‘Judge not’?”
    â€œRight on! We’ll make you a believer yet.”
    Don’t knock yourself out on that one , Steve thought. “Do you consider yourselves a church?” he asked.
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œWhat sort?”
    â€œIndependent. The only kind the Bible ever talks about.”
    â€œNo denomination?”
    â€œName me a denomination in the Bible.”
    â€œI’m not really up on — ”
    â€œGo on. Try.”
    â€œBaptist?”
    â€œNot there.”
    â€œWhat about John the Baptist?”
    Johnny laughed and Neal joined him.
    â€œI like you, Steve. We’re going to get along fine, like brothers should.”
    Johnny took Steve out to the backyard. The grass was patchy and there was no fence. Pine and birch all around. A nice-looking, peaceful place, Steve thought. Not like city life. But not a place he thought he could ever live. He liked the beat of the city. He’d go crazy here.
    Steve heard a growl and turned. A dog with a big black head and eyes blacker than death was tied to a stake in the ground. Checking Steve out.
    â€œThat’s Ezekiel,” Johnny said. “After the prophet. He’s a Presa Canario. Good-looking, huh?”
    â€œHe thinks I look like lunch,” Steve said, feeling some wetness under his arms. He once had to defend a man who owned a pit bull, one that had mauled an eight-year-old girl. It was not pretty what the dog did to her. It wasn’t pretty what the judge did to the owner, either.
    This dog was bigger than a pit bull. Scarier.
    â€œDon’t you worry about Zeke,” Johnny said. “We trained ’im. He’s gentle as a kitten. Unless he thinks one of us is in trouble, of course. Then he’s got a whole Old Testament thing going on.”
    They sat at a redwood table in the sun. Neal made up tuna-fish sandwiches and brought out a big bag of Lay’s potato chips. Neal drank a Coors and Johnny a Coke. To keep from getting sloppy, Steve followed Johnny’s lead.
    Johnny noticed. “I like it that you’re watching yourself.”
    â€œHow’s that?” Steve said.
    â€œAlcohol. It’s the root of so many problems. I gave it up myself. Neal’s on the way. Right, Neal?”
    There was a snap of authority in Johnny’s voice. Neal nodded obediently.
    â€œYou staying off the ’caine?” Johnny said to Steve.
    â€œYou know about that?” Steve said.
    Johnny smiled. “I know all about you.”
    â€œWhat, you had somebody looking into me or something?”
    â€œYou’re not mad, are you?”
    â€œI don’t know — ”
    Johnny put his hand up. “It was all part of finding you, Steve. I didn’t know if you ever wanted to see me again, and I had to try to figure that out. So Neal here did some Internet searching and found out about that disciplinary thing. I’m only asking because I want to help you any way I can.”
    â€œHow can you help