“Yet you can’t go fifteen minutes without pissing and moaning about your girlfriend.” I said “girlfriend” in a falsetto. “Admit you can’t compete with some longhair rocker and his ski pole. Poles. There’s no shame in it.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he said in a tragic voice and pushed his glasses back on.

“At least we’re free men.”

“Free? The hell you on about?”

“I’m shut of the Outfit,” I said. “You’re shut of the military and mercenary work, and maybe your maniac girlfriend. Meg is bound to relent sooner or later. Otherwise, we can head to our shacks and kindle a fire and brood like manly men of yore. Be of good cheer.”

Lionel was emphatically not of good cheer, as I soon discovered.

“We aren’t free. The universe gives us longer leashes and lets us run. It can retract the damned things anytime. We’ve gone through some shit. We know each other pretty well, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Wrong, bud. No matter what, people remain a mystery. It isn’t much different from getting close to a character on a TV show. You know every quirk about that character; you don’t know that the actor, the action star, is scared spitless of guns, that he beats his wife, that he’s as dumb as a bag of hammers.”

“That car wreck really—”

“Car chase.”

“That car chase really bothers you,” I said. It bothered me as well, although my worry centered on what might result of the encounter, or who would come calling.

“It got me thinking about the close calls I had in the Corps. Should’ve bought the farm on several occasions. Dumb fucking luck I’m here and intact. But it’s on my mind lately.”

“Shell shock?”

“Our grandfathers called it shell shock, yeah. These days, some call it post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s no joke. Twenty veterans commit suicide every day.” He smiled a flat, dark smile. “Gonna lay a secret on you, amigo. I don’t have shell shock or PTSD. Don’t worry on that score.”

“Hey, I’m here to listen.”

“It’s okay, amigo,” he said. “We both have our demons.”

“Hearts of darkness. Well earned.”

“Nah, whatever darkness lives inside me took root when I was a baby. Once upon a time, SIDS was the terror in every mother’s heart. No sudden infant death syndrome for baby Lionel. Death slunk in as I lay in that crib. Decided it liked the view and would stay awhile. As a man, I went to war because I craved mayhem. Recognized that if I didn’t ship my ass to a war zone, there’d be hell to pay at home. Thought I could go overseas and either die or burn the devil out of me. Or drown it in blood.”

“But you didn’t die, or burn, or drown,” I said.

“And the devil is still in there.”

“Bonus.”

“Ain’t it, though? The devil is a real prick. He protects and keeps the worst of us, his favored sons.”

“That’s gospel. What did Billy Joel say . . . ?”