The Devil’s Share by Wallace Stroby Page A

sure? But he never talks about it, if that’s what you mean. He’s never threatened it.”
    â€œThat’s good.”
    The kettle began to whistle. She turned off the flame, poured water into the mug, watched the steam rising up. “I don’t know what to do. I really don’t.”
    â€œI’ll talk to him,” he said. “But I don’t know that it’ll do any good.”
    â€œYou’re his oldest friend, Randy. You two went through a lot together. If he’ll listen to anybody, it’d be you.”
    She spooned sugar into the tea, stirred it, sat back down.
    â€œHe say anything to you about what’s bothering him?” he said. “I mean lately?”
    She blew on the tea, shook her head. “Nothing new. It just seems like he’s mad at the world. It’s the ‘effing’ this and the ‘effing’ that. The VA and the politicians and the NSA. And something about drones that doesn’t make any sense at all. It’s always the same.”
    He crossed his legs, adjusted his right boot, looked down the short hallway into the living room. It was dark there except for the light of a TV.
    â€œAnybody else here?” he said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œAnybody. Is there anyone else that’s been around here, knows what’s going on?” He tilted his head toward the driveway.
    â€œNo. He won’t see anybody, won’t talk to anybody. His sister called once, from North Carolina, but he wouldn’t talk to her. Not that I blame him. She has her own problems.”
    He exhaled, looked around, heard a clock ticking somewhere, voices from the television.
    â€œWell,” he said. “I guess there’s no sense putting it off.”
    â€œHe has a cell phone out there. When I need to, I call him from the house phone. You want me to do that?”
    â€œNo.” He stood. “Don’t bother. I have the number. I’ll call him when I’m outside.”
    â€œHe might not say it, but he’ll be happy to see you, I bet. He always talks about you.”
    â€œWhat does he say?”
    â€œJust what a great marine you were. That you saved his life in Fallujah. He’s always telling that story. Is it true?”
    â€œSome of it. But he exaggerates. We were all in the same boat over there. Just doing our jobs.”
    â€œSometimes it seems like you’re the only person in the world he isn’t mad at.”
    â€œWe’ll see about that, I guess.” He started for the door.
    She touched his arm. “Will you come back after you talk to him? Tell me what he said?”
    â€œI will.”
    He opened the door and the dog rushed in, began to bark at his heels again. Sharon called “Snowflake!” and he eased the dog aside with the edge of his boot, stepped out onto the porch, shut the door. Moths swirled in the floodlight.
    As he started down the driveway, he took out his cell, dialed Greggs’s number. He answered at the first ring, said, “Where the fuck are you?”
    â€œIn your driveway, jagoff. Where do you think?”
    â€œI knew someone was out there. I could hear that goddamn dog.”
    â€œYou gonna leave me standing around out here, or invite me in?”
    â€œCame all this way, I guess I can give you a minute. It’s open.”
    He went up the frame steps, knocked on the door, stood to the side as a precaution.
    â€œI said it’s open.”
    Inside, the air smelled of stale cigarette smoke and sweat. Greggs sat on an orange daybed, crutches leaning against the wall beside him. He held a .45 automatic in his right hand, pointed at Hicks’s chest. The hammer was back.
    Hicks raised his hands. “Careful with that.”
    â€œWhere’s your car? I didn’t hear it.”
    â€œIt’s down the street.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI didn’t want to disturb Sharon, in case she was sleeping. If she was, I would have turned