Page 109 of Tito

“No,” Tito said. “They don’t.”

“Braxton’s difficult to get along with,” Hap said, straight-faced. “He got it from his mother.”

“He’s old and stubborn,” Braxton said. “He got it from his father.”

“When you’re his age, will you be like him?” I asked.

“Sadly,” Braxton replied. “I’m sure I will be. We’re an extension of the asshole’s who raise us.”

“Damned shame I won’t be here to witness it,” Hap said.

Braxton’s claim was accurate. I had adopted my father’s patterns of speech, odd quirks, mannerisms, and his system of beliefs. As much as I tried to tell myself they were my own, I knew better. I was a female version of him.

No differently than my father, the world I lived in was separated into two segments. Right and wrong. There was no gray area. Everything either fit into one category or the other. I knew nothing or no one would ever change my—or my father’s—views.

I glanced at Braxton. “I think you’re right. We’re an extension of the parent or parents who raised us.”

Hap handed me a glass of wine. “You’re lucky you were raised by a cop. I’m sure your father has a good sense of moral value.”

I handed Tito the glass and waited for Hap to pour another. “He does.”

“Unlike those shit birds across the street.” Hap poured another glass and set the bottle on the handrail. “Not a moral bone in their bodies.”

“It’s sad, really,” I said, reaching for the glass. “That they think it’s okay to steal.”

“There’s no lower life form than a thief,” Hap said.

I handed Tito the glass of wine. “I’ll agree.”

“A cheater,” Tito said. “There’s nothing’s worse than a cheater.”

“Cheater’s nothing but a thief,” Hap argued. He reached for another glass. “He’s stealing time and emotions from whoever he’s cheating on.”

“Exactly!” I blurted. “You stole time from me, and I’ll never get it back. That’s what I told my ex.”

A dilapidated silver sedan cleared the crest of the hill at a speed so rapid that it became airborne. When it came back down to earth, the front end crashed against the asphalt with a loud bang!

Each of us craned our necks in that direction.

“Looks like we might be having company,” Hap said.

“Is that—”

“The neighbor,” Braxton said, answering me before I finished my thought.

The car came screeching to a stop in Hap’s driveway. The door flew open. A man bun-wearing guy with broad shoulders and long lean muscles pulled himself out of the car. Wearing stained khakis, a dingy wifebeater and sneakers, he stood at the edge of the driveway with his fists clenched, glaring at Hap.

“Come here, old man,” Mister Manbun said through his teeth.

“You got something to say,” Braxton said in an emotionless tone. “Come up here and say it.”

“I’m not talking to you, Slick,” Manbun said without taking his eyes off Hap. “I’m talking to the old man.”

Hap set the wine glass aside and barked out a laugh. “I whip cocksuckers like you on my way to a fight.” He bounded over the handrail in one leap and landed on the other side. “What’s the problem, dipshit?”

“That guy’s mad,” I whispered. “Aren’t one of you guys going to help Hap?”

Braxton laughed like I told a really good joke. “Help him? Against one guy? He doesn’t need any help, believe me.”