Prodigal Blues Read Free

below Thomas's knees where his legs had been removed ten days ago.   Thomas's arms were shaking and he kept reaching up to rub his eye.   Rebecca pushed him past several darkened homes, then turned up the walk to an old but impeccably-maintained Victorian.   She stopped, bent down, set the brakes on the wheelchair, and then came around to face him, setting two large brown grocery sacks in his lap.
    I couldn't hear what they were saying to one another but her body language told all I needed to know.   The flicker from the streetlights glinted from Rebecca's eyes and the tears running down her cheeks.   She knelt down as best she could and took hold of Thomas's trembling hands, then leaned in against him, whispering in his ear.   After a moment Thomas freed his hands and wrapped his arms around her.   Rebecca began to return the embrace, hesitated a moment, and then gave in.   They held each other in silence.   I could not even begin to imagine what was passing between them.   I can imagine better now, but I try not to.
    Rebecca was the one to break the embrace.   She stood, wiped her eyes, tried to smile but didn't make it, and then simply walked away, leaving him parked halfway up the walk.
    The beam from the laser-sight jumped up and down against my chest.   Twice.
    This was the first signal.
    As soon as Rebecca was out of sight I was to count to sixty, then make the call.
    She rounded the corner and paused.   Her head made a slight half-turn as if she were about to take a last look at Thomas, but she stopped herself and resumed walking.   Our transportation was parked farther down that street, in an area where there was not a streetlight; by the time I reached sixty she would be back inside the vehicle, waiting for the rest of us.
    Hidden somewhere near the young man with the pistol was another kid named Arnold.   He was wearing a set of headphones and was pointing a twenty-inch parabolic dish in my direction.   Grendel had ordered it through some online surveillance equipment company.   It ran on three AAA batteries and could listen in on any conversation within three hundred yards with pinpoint accuracy.   He wouldn't need to hear what was said by the person I was about to call, he was listening only for my side of the conversation; one mistake, and he'd tell the young man with the pistol and that, as they say, would be that.
    They were an organized bunch, no argument there.
    When I counted forty I thumbed the " talk" button and—
    —and this isn't right.   Not at all.   Sorry.   Dammit.   I said I wouldn't know where to begin.
    The biggest part of the mess .
    Not always so obvious at first glance, I'm afraid....

3. The Twin Butter Dishes
     
    I was stranded at a truck-stop near Jefferson City, Missouri.   It happened like this:
    The drive from Cedar Hill to Topeka had taken the better part of eighteen hours because the car I was driving (borrowed from my brother-in-law's used car business—he'd assured me it was "...in top-notch condition!") kept overheating and frequent service-station stops were required.   The list of ailments it suffered from kept growing exponentially the farther I traveled, and one mechanic even went so far as to say, " Please tell me that you didn't actually walk onto a lot and buy this goddamn nightmare from someone.   The only things holding that engine together are spit and wishes, and I'm not all that sure about the spit.   I've done all I can.   I hope you make it home.   I'll remember you in my prayers."
    I decided something along that line would be a good slogan for my brother-in-law's business:
     
    Perry's Used Cars:   We'll Pray You Make It Home .
     
    Despite the mechanic's dire assessment, I made it to Topeka and did what I'd gone there to do.   It took about as long as I'd expected, and after three days of dealing with redneck Kansas relatives I was more than ready for the comfortable, white-bread blandness of Ohio.   I packed up what was needed, said