“The bottle was almost empty when you asked me—I doubt you recall, you were so drunk—but you asked me, ‘Why do we do it, Mitch? What’s the point?’
“You said that we were spinning our wheels, fighting a war that’ll never end because the bad guys just keep getting badder. You said the justice system was a joke and that seeking justice was an exercise in futility.”
“I was shit-faced on straight tequila. Blubbering. Nothing I said was worth listening to.”
Mitch shook his head. “Drunken ramblings, maybe, but when Angela told me about the baby, I thought over everything you’d said. I want to see my son grow up. I want to grow old with my wife. I don’t want to take a forty-five-caliber bullet in the back of my head and have my body dumped in a swamp by some punk doper who got wise to me.”
“No explanation necessary. I get it,” John said quietly. “What do you plan to do?”
“I’ve got some irons in the fire. A position in Florida is looking good. Generous benefits, regular hours. Angela wouldn’t have to eat dinner alone every night.”
“You’re an adrenaline junkie,” John said. “You’ll miss the rush.”
“I’ve thought of that, sure. I’ll take up motocross, white water rafting, hang gliding. Something that keeps my battery charged. Do you miss it?”
“The rush? Naw.”
“Liar. What’s Butthole Barker got you doing these days?”
“Let’s see. Follow-up on a home burglary. The thief got away with a lawn chair. Last week I was sent to check out a report of rabid skunks under someone’s house.”
“Jesus. What a waste. Who’re you partnered with?”
“Nobody. I don’t need a partner to investigate the dirty words spray-painted on Walmart’s restroom walls.”
“John,” his friend sighed.
“No, no. It was an interesting case of vandalism. All the obscenities were misspelled.”
Mitch didn’t look amused. “You should have left when I did.”
“I didn’t get an offer from the DEA.”
“Would you have taken it?”
John said nothing.
Mitch sighed. “John, why do you stay? What’s keeping you from telling Barker to go fuck himself and leaving?”
“The paycheck.” He glanced around his living room. It had been shabby in the 1950s. Today it bordered on derelict. “I’d have to give up living in the lap of luxury.”
“Yeah, this house is swell, the bayou in your backyard is a petri dish for creatures that bite and sting and poison.” Mitch gave him a sympathetic smile and shook his head remorsefully. “You gotta get over that case, John. Move back into town. Move on.”
“One day, maybe.”
Mitch held his gaze a moment longer, then indicated Mutt. “When did he move in?”
“A few months back.”
“As a watchdog, he’s useless.”
John regarded Mutt fondly. “Yeah, but at least he’s got pedigree and good looks.”
Mitch chuckled, then slapped his knees and stood up. “I gotta get home and explain to Angela how I got the bruise on my abs.”
“Give her a hug for me.”
“Like hell I will.” He headed toward the door. “You gonna see her again?”
John knew he was no longer referring to Angela, but he played dumb. “Who?”
Mitch looked back at him and laughed. “She was cute.”
“She was. Just not my type.”
Mitch laughed harder.
“Anyhow, she was too young for me.”
“You doth protest too much, my friend. Did you at least get her digits?”
“I didn’t even get her name. If I did, I don’t remember it,” he lied. “I told you, the encounter was—”
“Totally random. Right, right,” Mitch said, still grinning. “Don’t turn any lights on till I’m long gone. I can’t be seen sneaking out of a cop’s house. Take care of you.”
“Same.”
They fist bumped, then Mitch slipped through the door and melded into the misty darkness so easily he didn’t even disturb the wispy Spanish moss hanging from the lower tree branches. John locked the door and made certain that it was also bolted. He let Mutt out the back door in the kitchen. “You’ve got two minutes. But no pressure.”