As for now, it was still early and Al was in full swing. He drained his first beer quick and called up to the kitchen window for another. Henry tensed, knowing all too well how Michelle responded to taking orders, from men especially. However, she not only obeyed, but also came out with a second for Henry, as if encouraging him to drink. He accepted it, even though the first was still half-full. Shrugged, because fuck it. Might as well drink. Didn’t look like he’d be getting a word in edgewise anytime soon.

Alternating between pulls of beer and the fifth of Henny, Al was all revved up and blathering about his newest hustle with a skinny named Rodney, a stuttering, shifty-eyed bastard whom Henry felt he could sure as shit throw a lot farther than trust. The one time Al had brought Rodney here, every one of his stammered comments about Henry and Michelle’s home seemed laced with a bitterness that struck Henry as a nasty breed of envy. Al and this Rodney had a pickpocketing thing going, working the commuter trains into the city. Al served as lookout and emergency muscle for Rodney, who slithered his hand into purses and pockets. Decent take from the cash, plus the gift cards they spent on electronics and whatnot to pawn along with the pinched cell phones across the state line. But the slow burn, the long-term investment, Al explained, was selling credit card numbers for these bid coins on the internet or something—Henry hadn’t quite made everything out, his attention already ebbing from the alcohol. He rubbed his eyes as Al joked about still being broke for now, since whatever cash he made from the wallets or pawnshops went straight to rent, into his belly, or up his nose, and but, hey, come to think of it, did Henry want a line?

Al swabbed the film of grime off the truck’s hood, then poured a tiny white hill from a vial the size of a bullet. Right then Michelle kneed the screen door open, carrying the platter of steaks and a bottle of beer. Henry cleared his throat, sidling between the powder and her sight line.

“Go ahead, Hen,” she said. “Deserve a treat after all this month’s shit.”

Then Al began saying fuck, over and over, and flung his arms open for a second hug. Said he was so sorry about Henry’s old man, and even more sorry he hadn’t said anything yet, condolences and shit. He lifted the fifth to pour one out for Papa, paused, then spilled out some beer instead. He called Papa a damn good man, said they sure didn’t make them like that anymore, that was for goddamn sure, and Henry himself wasn’t exactly sure if he’d been nodding or shaking his head as he approached the truck, twisting a Benny into a tube.