One Shot Away Read Free

that?” The police car’s headlights reflect in the rearview mirror. “You got that?”
    â€œGot what?” Jimmy wants to run. He would feel better running than sitting in the truck waiting to get arrested.
    â€œThe story!”
    â€œI’m going to be sick.” His voice is high and cracks. He feels panic from his balls all the way to his throat.
    â€œGet a hold of yourself.” Pops’s eyes dart from the rearview mirror to the road. The police car speeds up. It’s directly behind them. The emergency lights flash on.
    â€œHe’s pulling us over!” Jimmy unlocks his door.
    â€œJust calm down.”
    â€œShould I run?”
    â€œI’ll handle it.” Pops pulls the truck over in front of an abandoned vegetable stand stacked with wooden boxes. Gravel crunches under the tires. “Jimmy, keep your mouth shut, you understand?” He stamps his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. “Sit back and listen. You might learn something.”
    The policeman stands to the rear of the truck cab, shining his flashlight into the driver-side window. “License and registration.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter, officer?” Pops fumbles through his wallet. Jimmy grips the door handle; one flick and he’s sprinting.
    â€œYou’ve got no warning flag on the back of that lumber. It’s sticking ten feet off the truck.”
    â€œJesus, my son forgot the flag. Didn’t I tell you about the flag?”
    Jimmy wants to yell You’re blaming me? Jimmy looks across his father, trying to locate the policeman’s face. All he sees is his flashlight’s beam shining into the truck.
    â€œYou haven’t been drinking tonight?” asks the officer. “Have you?”
    â€œOf course not. We’re on our way to a job.”
    â€œWhy don’t you step out of the truck?”
    Pops opens the door. “I haven’t had a drink since last Sunday’s Jets game.”
    What a liar! He was drinking at dinner and after dinner.
    Pops laughs, coughs. “Right, Jimmy? That’s my son in there.” The flashlight shines on Jimmy’s face. “We’re heading to a job site in Bergen County. I’m real sorry about the flag. I can tie on something.”
    The policeman holds his flashlight on Pops’s driver’s license. “Your son, is he the wrestler Jim O’Shea?”
    â€œHe sure is.”
    â€œI’ve seen him wrestle,” says the policeman. “We get to work those events.” He hands Pops his license. “How’s the team going to do this year?” calls the policeman into the truck, his voice easy, like a regular guy.
    â€œWe have a meeting tomorrow.” Jimmy’s voice is choked and dry. “I just want to get home.”
    â€œHe means Monday,” says Pops.
    â€œWell, hang something on that load and good luck.” The officer walks back to his car.
    After tying a handkerchief on the longest board protruding from the truck, Pops gets back into the cab. “What the heck, a meeting tomorrow? I just told him we were going to a job. You could have blown it.”
    Jimmy stares daggers at him. “Don’t ever ask me to help you again. You just put my season on the line. Do you realize that?”

Diggy
    D IGGY M ASTERS FINISHED DINNER AN HOUR AGO AND IS STILL starving. He rises from the couch and peeks out the window. Randy Masters stands on the deck with a cigar between his fingers watching the dark golf course that extends from their backyard. His tan-colored drink in a fat glass drips on the rail.
    Diggy scans the kitchen. Apple pie on top of the refrigerator at twelve o’clock. He retrieves it, opens the box, and plows his fingers into the cut side, into the gooey apples, and scoops the filling into his mouth. He shovels another handful and swallows it, then checks on Randy, who is still gazing at the golf course as if something besides someone whacking a golf