by Giano Cromley

She nodded again and scrunched up her nose. "You might want to get those things checked out. They look infected."

I laughed at this, though it was only after I laughed that I realized she hadn't meant it to be funny.

"I'll be all right. You know me, I always pull through."

She agreed with this and then drifted down to the other end of the bar where two fat guys I didn't recognize were drinking lowballs and watching CNN with the sound turned down. Poor Marion. She looked a lot older than I'd remembered. Sagging lines on her face. And her hair was worn out from all the bleaching she'd put it through. Seeing her like that brought me down a bit.

I was just starting to work on my third or fourth beer when Tiny showed up and took a seat at the Naugahyde stool next to mine. Lots of guys get the nickname "Tiny" because they're actually big dudes. My Tiny, however, is exactly what his name would suggest. He's short and scrawny, with a sharp-looking ferret face.

"Been a while, Trigger," he said. His shoulders were slumped, which made him look even smaller.

"Too long," I said.

He seemed wary of me. He hadn't even shaken my hand. Maybe Tiny was mad about the way I'd left town in such a rush all those months ago. People can get bitter over the smallest things; it's like an illness. I make it a point to never hold grudges, and I think that philosophy has served me well over the years.

"So you brought something with you?" he asked. Marion had put a glass of beer in front of him, but he hadn't touched it yet. He was working his hands together as if his palms were sweaty.

"I sure did, Tiny. But I just got here. No point getting down to business right away."

"What did you have in mind?" he asked.

"I don't know. Hang out for a bit. Tip a few beers. Talk about the olden days."

He looked at me with those narrow eyes of his. "Olden days? What, like four months ago?"

"Sure," I said. I was starting to run out of patience with his attitude. If he wanted to hold a grudge, fine. But let's at least be civil.

"How have you been, Tiny?"

"Shitty," he said. He was still worming his hands together and it was making me nervous. "What the hell is wrong with your face, man?"

I touched my scratches, which had begun to itch again. "Nothing. I had an accident a few weeks ago. It'll clear up in no time."

"You look like shit, Trigger."

This had officially turned into one crappy homecoming. I don't mind telling you I felt lower than low right then. Tiny, my buddy, my comrade in arms, was showing a distinct lack of hospitality.

"Don't you remember all those great times we had?" I asked. "Aren't those worth anything anymore?"

"They're worth about a squirt of piss, old buddy." He laughed at this. All mean-like, his ferret face scrunched up and nasty.

"Listen," I said, "if you don't want to chat, that's cool with me. We can just take care of business and call it a day."

"Works for me," he said. He picked up his beer and chugged it. Three monstrous swallows that made you wonder how such a scrawny dude can put that much beer in him so fast. This was at least a small glimmer of the Tiny I remembered. And that made me feel a little better about things.

"Where's the stuff?" he asked once he'd set the glass back on the bar.

"Out in my pickup."

He shook his head. "Always the brilliant one, Trigger. Three pounds of dope and you leave it in a car in the parking lot. Real smart."

I didn't say anything because whatever I would have said would not have been nice. We stood up and walked out of The Sweet Hereafter and into the blazing LA sun. He laughed again when he saw "Imhoff Engineering" on the side of my pickup. "Real smart," he said. I was getting sick of Tiny's laugh at this point and I had half a mind to knock a couple of his teeth out. But I also had an eye on my mission. After all, I had a plan, and, sour homecoming or not, I had to stick with it.

"This truck smells like piss," he said when I opened the door. He looked at the jug I'd been using for my port-o-potty. "I'm not even going to ask."

"I'm certainly thankful for that, Tiny."

I fished the packages out of the truck and carried them over to Tiny's car – some 80s-vintage shitbox. We stowed them in the trunk and he pulled out a fat envelope, which he handed to me.

"Three grand," he said through his teeth. "You can count it if you like."

"Not necessary among old friends," I said. I was keeping up the old-friends bit mostly just to annoy him.

He slammed his trunk and shook my hand, a gesture I was grateful for, I have to admit. And, with that, he climbed into his car and drove off. I watched him go thinking, So long, Patsy, Jude and Clementine. I hope things work out well for you kids.

It was three in the afternoon and my plan had thus far gone off smoothly. The Skeebers I'd been feeling all morning quieted down noticeably. But I couldn't deny that I was feeling a little hollow over the shabby way Tiny had treated me. I don't know. I guess I wanted something more from this expedition. Going home now, even with the necessary cash, would still feel like I was going home empty-handed. I resolved to call Sherise one more time to see if she was around. You could say I was courting trouble. And maybe I was. I've been known to do that in my day.

+++++

Again there was no answer at Sherise's place when I called. So I figured, What the heck, I'll just stop on by real quick and see if she's around. Her place wasn't far from The Sweet Hereafter so it would be no trouble at all.

Sherise's apartment complex was one of those depressing two-story buildings with a pool that no one ever cleaned. But we'd had some good times there nonetheless. We'd lit that place up, Sherise and me. That's the way we were – always making the best of some pretty rotten situations. God, when things were going well between us, they were really unbelievable, I can assure you.