Third Strike by Philip R. Craig

better than anything except watching and listening to birds and recording their songs, and his schoolteacher mother, who was growing older with a child who never aged. I took Bonzo fishing several times a year, sometimes when I knew no fish would be there, just because he loved to cast his line.
    â€œI’m not doing any fishing right now,” I said. “I’m trying to learn about the man who was killed in that explosion on the boat in Vineyard Haven. I see that some of the men in the union are here, and I want to talk with any of them who knew Eduardo Alvarez. Do you know if he was ever in here?”
    The happy look went away from Bonzo’s face. “Oh, I heard about that explosion, J.W. That was bad. You know what it made me think?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt made me think of that saying that only the good die young. Because Eduardo was young and he was good, too. You ever hear that saying, J.W.?”
    â€œI’ve heard it, Bonzo. Are you telling me that Eduardo came into this bar? Did you talk with him?”
    Bonzo’s head nodded like a bobble head. “Oh, sure. We was friends. He was friends with lots of people, and I was one of them. Almost everybody was his friend.” He waved a thin-wristed hand in a gesture that took in most of the room. Then the hand stopped, and I followed its line to a man at the bar who was looking at us with an unfriendly face. “Except, maybe Steve, there,” said Bonzo, lowering his voice and dropping his arm. “Steve and Eduardo used to argue and almost fight.”
    â€œAlmost?”
    â€œOh, Eduardo would never fight,” said Bonzo, apparently surprised that I didn’t understand that obvious characteristic. “He’d just put up his hands and move back, and then somebody would always step between them, and Steve might hit that guy before the other guys would stop him and give him a beer and quiet him down.” He put his face close to mine. “Once, though, the police had to come and take Steve and another guy away because they wouldn’t stop fighting.”
    Whiskey warriors are commonplace, unfortunately. If you give certain normally mild people enough alcohol to get drunk, they become nasty. On the other hand, if you get some normally obnoxious people drunk, they might become sentimental and burst into song. In vino veritas .
    I looked at Steve and found him staring at me beneath frowning brows. I brought my eyes back to Bonzo. “What were they fighting about?” I asked.
    â€œOh, about the strike. You know, there’s some guys who want it to stay peaceful and others who want to get tougher about it.”
    â€œIs that what Eduardo and Steve argued about?”
    Bonzo’s head bobbed some more. “Yeah. I’ll tell you something, J.W. We don’t mind people arguing when they keep their voices down, you know what I mean? But we don’t like it when they get mad and loud, and we don’t like fights at all. It’s bad for business.”
    I finished my beer. It had tasted good enough to have another one, and Bonzo said he’d be glad to get it. I watched him go to the bar and saw Steve’s big hand grab his shirt when he got there. Steve’s voice reached across the room. “You talking about me, you half-wit?”
    Bonzo was his height but half his weight. He pushed at Steve’s hand. “I’m just getting a beer for my friend. Lemme go.”
    Jake, the bartender, moved closer. “Now take it easy, Steve,” he said. Other voices said the same.
    But Steve’s hand didn’t let go. He gave Bonzo a shake. “Fuck your friend. You keep your mouth shut about what you hear, you brainless idiot, or I’ll punch you even sillier than you already are.”
    I was halfway to the bar before I realized I’d left the booth.
    Steve, however, had seen me from the start, and he was smiling. He shoved Bonzo away so hard that he’d have fallen if