Page 10 of Roadrunner

I felt grateful, frustrated, and a little afraid, all at once. Mostly afraid there was something underneath all of it I didn’t know yet.

“You don’t have any deep dark secrets?” I asked, half joking.

“I am who I am. I’m not going to lie to you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I thought of the show. Drugs, beatdowns, the occasional body. “What about the club? Drugs, anything like that?”

“Club business isn’t mine to talk about. But no. We’re not that kind of club.”

“Criminal stuff?”

“What about it?”

“Do you do it?”

“Me?”

“You. Forget the club. Are you a criminal?”

“I’ve committed a crime or two. That doesn’t make me a criminal.”

“What does that mean?”

He laced his fingers together and looked at them for a while before he answered. “You ever draw anything? Paint?”

“Sure. Everyone has.”

“Would you call yourself an artist?”

“God, no. I’m terrible at it.”

“Everybody sins. Doesn’t make everybody a sinner, not really. Same idea. I break the law now and then. Doesn’t make me a criminal.”

Considering the company he kept, it tracked. “You guys mess with guns?”

He laughed. “This is Arizona, not California. Everybody has a gun.”

“Do you?”

“Four.”

“What for?”

“One’s an antique Winchester 30-30, more of an investment than anything. It’ll keep going up in value. A rifle for hunting. A shotgun at home. A pistol when I’m on the road.”

“You have it now?”

He stretched his leg out from under the booth and nodded at his boot.

“You’ve got a gun in your boot?” I said it loud enough that two booths over turned to look.

“Jesus,” he muttered, pulling his leg back in. “Want to tell the whole restaurant?”

“You’ve got a gun in your boot?” I whispered.

“I do. And I’ve got a permit for it, before you ask.”

“That’s insane.”