I had, and I knew what he was going through. I could remember the feel of residual booze slugging through my bloodstream, churning my stomach and pounding the dilated vessels in my brain. The dry mouth. The shaky hands. The sense that someone had poured lead shot in the space below my sternum.

Kit rubbed his eyes, then reached over and stroked Bird's head. I knew he was wishing he were someplace else.

"Food wil help."

"I'm fine."

"Try the sandwich."

He raised his eyes to me and smiled. But as soon as he relaxed the corners of his mouth hooked downward, unable to sustain the effort without conscious direction. He took a bite the size of a dime.

"Umm." He popped open the Diet Coke, tipped back his head, and gulped.

It was obvious that he didn't want to travel in the direction I was headed. Wel , neither did I. Perhaps there was no issue. He was nineteen. He'd had a big night. He was hungover We'd al been there.

Then I remembered the phone message. And the new tattoo.

There were issues, and we needed to discuss them.

I knew what I said would make little difference. Probably none, He was young. Invulnerable. And "born to boogie," according to Harry. But I owed it to him to try

"Who's the Preacher?" I asked.

He looked at me as he rotated his Diet Coke can on the table.

"Just a guy I met."

"Met where?"

"At the Harley shop. When I went with Lyle."

"What kind of guy?"

He shrugged the question off. "No one special. Just a guy."

"He left you a message."

"Oh?"

"You listen. I can't translate it."

"Yeah. The Preacher's kind of a head case." That was an understatement.

"How so?"

"I don't know. He's just out there. But he rides this chopped '64 panhead that is truly righteous." He took a long swig of Diet Coke. "I'm sorry I stood you up last night. Did you find my note?" He was looking for a new topic.

"Yes. What was this event that was so important?"

"A boxing match," he said without expression. His face had the consistency of bread dough. And about as much color.

"Do you fol ow boxing?"

"Not real y. These guys do, so I went along."

"What guys?"

"Just these guys I met."

"At the Harley shop."

He shrugged.

"And the tattoo?"

"Pretty cool, eh?"

He raised his sleeve. A scorpion wearing some sort of helmet spread its legs across his left biceps.

"What is it supposed to mean?"

"It doesn't mean anything. It just looks kick-ass."

I had to agree.

"Your mother is going to kil me."

"Harry has a tattoo on her left buttock." He pronounced the last with a British inflection.

Jam the lord of the dance, said he ...