Revolver Read Free

outskirts, in increasing numbers. This guy probably sees Jim in his jacket and tie and thinks he can hit him up for a few bucks. Or maybe whatever’s left of the Schmidt’s in his hand.
    “Sorry, can’t help you, buddy.”
    Jim turns his attention back to the flowers on the ground. He’s not in the mood to deal with this shit right now. But it looks like his visit is going to be shorter than usual. He squeezes his son’s shoulder again.
    “You ready to go?”
    “Hey, man,” the guy says again, pleading now. Jim senses Cary tensing up. He’s a fragile kid, easily spooked, just like his mother. Jim’s deciding whether it’s worth flashing his badge or not, tell the guy to go bother someone else, when the guys says,
    “Jimmy…it’s me .”
    Jim gives the guy a closer look. Red eyes, trembling lips. High on something. But his features are familiar, even if Jim can’t place them. Somebody he busted? No, somebody he busted wouldn’t call him Jimmy.
    “It’s George, man,” the guy says, and then it all clicks so hard Jim’s head spins a little.
    Jesus.
    The last time Jim saw George Wildey, Jr., it was more than ten years ago, in an interrogation room, back when Jim was working narcotics. Guy says he knows you. Yeah, Jim knew the guy. He did what he could for him, which wasn’t much. He had a few felony arrests for burglary, dope dealing, auto theft. There are two paths you can follow. Even as a kid, Jim knew George Junior here was headed down the wrong one, despite what his father did for a living.
    “Hey, George,” Jim says. “I’m sorry, it’s been a while.”
    “Yes it has, yes it has. Is that your oldest?” George asks, looking at Cary.
    “No, no. This is Cary, my second-born,” Jim says. “Care, this is my friend George. His daddy was—”
    “Grandpop’s partner,” Cary says, getting it.
    George Junior gestures to the bunch of flowers leaning up against the wall.
    “Shoulda thought of that.”
    Jim shakes his head. “They’re for both of them. My pop and yours.”
    George Junior nods at the beer in Jim’s hand. “Heh heh. That for them, too?”
    “Yeah, I guess so. You want a pull?”
    “Nah, man, I don’t drink anymore.”
    They’re roughly the same age. In the short time their fathers were partners, they socialized twice—and both were very awkward experiences. Jim actually liked Officer Wildey quite a bit. His big bear laugh, his cool taste in soul, jazz, and even rock. Wildey was the guy who pointed out that the Stones pretty much ripped off “The Last Time” from the Staple Singers, and this always came to mind when the song came on the radio. Or when he played it at home, late at night.
    His son Junior, though, is another story. Always has this look in his eye that’s part accusation, part confrontation.
    “You still working narco?” Junior asks now.
    “Nah. Moved over to homicide about ten years back.”
    “Hom-i-cide,” George Junior says, drawing out the syllables as if holding the word up to the light to inspect it. “That’s good, real good.”
    George Junior stands there shivering in the heat. He seems to want to lean against the wall but doesn’t want to appear weak. Jim wants to ask a lot of questions—where are you living, what are you doing, how’s your mom—but decides he really doesn’t want to hear the answers. Jim just wants to go home to his family and hope the visit next year is a little better. Maybe someone will finally decide to reopen the bar.
    Jim pulls out his wallet, flips it open, reaches inside.
    “Here.”
    “No, man, I don’t need nothing like that.”
    Jim shakes his head as he pulls out a white business card, emblazoned with a golden badge and his beeper number. Your basic get-out-of-a-gentle-scrape card. It wouldn’t help you with, say, possession with intent to sell. Or homicide. But it could make a traffic stop a little easier.
    “Just in case,” Jim says.
    George Junior takes the card, blinks. “In case of