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Around 10:30 PM Mac enters, long after delivery hours. Paletello surrenders the standard faux-raised-eyebrow greeting. He admits no particular use for any of his customers, ritually demonstrating this upon Mac in the presence of the others; yet on nights when he talks about his granddaughter, a sentimental favorite among the regulars who have never seen her, Mac is a convenient and absolutely attentive listener.

Ret is a black guy Mac knows. Tonight he's down near the end of the counter with somebody Mac's never seen before. Mac waves broadly. Ret acknowledges him with a subtle lift of face and carries on a low intense conversation. The companion is a small man, young. He looks straight down at the counter. Ret holds a longneck beer, the visitor a glass of water, no ice.

Mac asks Paletello if Martin has been around. "No." Not nope, but no.  Final.

Mac goes with coffee and a chili dog. He listens to the radio dispatcher, a curt, whiny voice advising coded scenarios and locales without any seeming confidence in the outcomes. Mac pictures her like a (not unappealing) photograph demonstrating the ecstasy of a kitchen appliance. Glossy, manicured. Wonders how she got the job.

Ret's typical attire is a green fatigue combat shirt for a jacket and khakis, with a faded beret. The times Mac asks, Ret denies adamantly that he was in Viet Nam. More adamantly as the occasions escalate. But Martin covertly assures him the truth is otherwise. If Mac picks just the right moment, Martin advises, he will eventually get to hear about the incredible, harrowing maneuvers at Quang Tri. Mac waits, watching Ret for signs of affability, weakening. He is almost patient.

Bits of the conversation drift down the counter—Ret's usual cautionary tones. Mac is not able to decipher the visitor, hearing a set of high, cat-like moans. Ret works untiringly, reciting a short list of instructions over and over, like incantations. Mac gathers the matter has something to do with the visitor's grandmother.

There's no phone number in the book for Ret. It remains a small source of longing in Mac, Ret never volunteering the location of his home.

Despite Paletello's gaze suggesting otherwise, Mac rises and drifts tentatively down their way, aiming for a stray newspaper on the counter.

His unerring instinct for the fellowship of others. The visitor spies him uneasily; Ret tenses.

Mac halts and reaches for the paper. He looks at it, then turns ever so slightly toward Ret.

The proximity proves apparently too much. Their visitor jumps up, shaking Ret's hand quickly and awkwardly, the way a five year old boy does. Ret throws an irritated glance at Mac and reaches to grasp a sleeve in vain. He calls "Hey—don't lose what I'm telling you man,—"

Mac stands, newspaper under his armpit, right hand out for an introduction. The visitor cringes, still moving, fists balled in his pockets. Mac is able to catch the crazy angle of the left eye, its iridescent grey coloring. Hugging the stained wall behind the stools, whizzing through.

"Come on over after work tomorrow or you'll get your ass picked up."—Ret.

Out the door, shoes soundless on the sidewalk. Mac, tucking his hand back in pocket, totally obvious.

He ambles over and freely occupies the vacant stool. Ret does not turn to face him. "What's happening?"

"It ain't." Ret draws on the longneck bottle.

"Who was that cat?" A little shiver from Ret.  At the expression, maybe.

"That man is my cousin."

"What's his name?"

Ret twists the bottle. "Called him Glasseye every since he was little."

"He's your cousin? He's littler than you, a lot."

Ret shrugs.

Mac's fingers drum the counter.  "His eye is messed up, huh?"

Ret smiles, almost to himself. The radio crackles. "They would at school try to blow in his ear—this was before he got the new eye and it was just a hole there—they'd blow in his ear and try to see his eyelid puff out. Chase him all over the playground, blowing at him." Ret runs his finger around the mouth of the bottle. "Kids are rough."

"How'd his eye get put out? or did he come without one to begin with?"

Ret studies a moment before admitting he can't remember just how.

When he orders another beer Mac signals for one too, checking the clock and wondering if Martin will come in tonight. Paletello slides the coffee cup away.

Mac spreads the paper out on the narrow counter, scanning the front page as if it held mysteries behind the printed words.  Soon he puts that section aside and lays out the local Metropolitan portion. Here he lingers lovingly, recognizing names. "A lot of times Martin is the guy to write this stuff and they don't list him. You know what I mean? It's only on important stuff you see his name, but he does a lot more than that." Ret nods absently. Paletello adjusts the squelch on the radio.

In the editorial section there are letters regarding the recent edict of mandatory bicycle registration. The city's position is sincerity—this particular nuisance is necessary in the fight against theft. Many disadvantaged citizens find their possessions burglarized—the ones who need bikes most have to be protected.

That the fines upon those found without registration papers borders on steep is an unfortunate stroke of chance. As is the formation of a searchable database of registrants.

In driving at night Mac has seen the snaky coordination of gangs on bikes, how quickly they disperse after a round of rude slaps on his trunk, white eye rims in faces invisible against black night.

Having been clued in by Martin on the unsubtle subtleties of the official position, he probes Ret. And not for the first time. "I mean, I'm not asking just because you're black, just you might know is all. I mean, we're friends." Ret's look betrays some irritation.

"Hey, that guy, last week?"

"Hmm?"

"He musta been some kind of hick, huh. Coming up from out in the parish with that pickup. He wadn't asking for no directions, I bet. Probably called those guys on bikes the n-word or something to their face. No wonder they beat the shit out of him. Think that's what happened?"

The bottle descending makes a rude pop on Ret's lips. "Man, I don't know."

Mac looks down at the paper quickly, flexing it.

"Yeah, who knows." Cars pass down Desiard in low Buick-voiced rumbles, plocking on pavement interstices. The air builds to a certain uncomfortable thickness.

Then: "I've seen them out there—man, those suckers can move on them two-wheelers, can't they?"

Ret immediately draws money out of his pocket for Paletello.

"With these streets kept up as crappy as they are, it's a miracle, huh? Especially down yonder. I mean, Burg Jones."

Ret stands. "Check you later."

He drops two bills on the counter and doesn't wait for change.

"Yeah, all right. Later." Mac watches him take the sidewalk. He has never seen Ret with a car.

Out the door, going west. Mac pictures the housing situation down there: none. Just banks and nonfunctional movie theatres and the row of decaying buildings along Grand Street, and behind them, heavy cottonwood growth and the river.

"You think I ticked him off?"

 
 

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