The Devil’s Share by Wallace Stroby Page B

around, come back tomorrow.”
    â€œThat your story?”
    â€œIt is.”
    Empty Olympia cans on every flat surface, cigarette butts on the floor. Greggs’s prosthetic leg, all gleaming metal and white plastic, was on the table in the breakfast nook, a Nike sneaker on the foot piece. Greggs wore a stained white T-shirt and knee-length camouflage cargo shorts, the left leg loose and empty. On his right foot was the other Nike. He was unshaven, his hair long and dirty.
    â€œMake me nervous,” Greggs said. “Sneaking up like that.”
    â€œWasn’t any sneaking involved.”
    â€œAnyone else out there with you? Durell maybe? Sandy?”
    Hicks shook his head. “Durell’s still over there. And I haven’t seen Sandy in months.”
    â€œClose the door.”
    Hicks lowered his hands, pulled the door shut behind him.
    â€œNow step over here.”
    Holding the gun on him, Greggs reached up with his left hand, slapped his sides, his waistband.
    â€œSad to think we’ve come to this,” Hicks said.
    â€œWhose fault is that?”
    â€œWhat I’m here to talk about. But not while you’re holding that.”
    Greggs looked at him, then lowered the .45.
    â€œThanks. Why don’t you decock that sumbitch while you’re at it?”
    Greggs pointed the gun at the floor, used both hands to lower the hammer. They heard the dog bark twice more, then go quiet.
    â€œI’m gonna shoot that thing someday,” Greggs said. “I hate that dog.”
    â€œYou’re not shooting anything. Can I sit?”
    Greggs nodded at the breakfast nook. Hicks pushed aside dirty laundry, sat facing him. “Maid’s on vacation, I see. How long you intend to live out here like this?”
    Greggs didn’t answer. He put the .45 beside him on the daybed, next to his cell phone.
    â€œSharon’s worried about you,” Hicks said. “That’s not very fair to her, is it?”
    â€œShe understands. Grab me those butts, will you?”
    There was a hard pack of Marlboros beside the prosthetic leg. Hicks picked it up, tossed it into Greggs’s lap. He thumbed the box open, took out a cigarette and a cheap plastic lighter.
    â€œSo, what?” he said. “I’m supposed to be happy to see you?”
    â€œYou should be. I imagine you will be when you hear what I have to say.”
    â€œI’m listening.” He lit the cigarette, put the lighter back inside, closed the pack.
    Hicks picked up the prosthetic leg. It weighed less than he expected. “You don’t wear this? It cost Uncle enough.”
    â€œIt chafes. Itches like a motherfucker, too. Can’t seem to get it to fit right.” He took an open beer can from the windowsill behind him, wedged it between his thighs.
    â€œCan you walk with it?”
    â€œA little. Not far.”
    He set the leg back down. “What’s the therapist say?”
    Greggs blew out smoke, tapped ash in the beer can. “You bring me anything?”
    Hicks waved away smoke. “Why I’m here.”
    â€œAbout time.”
    Hicks reached inside his jacket, and Greggs put his hand on the .45. Hicks drew out the rubber-banded envelope slowly, held it up, then tossed it onto the daybed. “Part of your share. More to come.”
    â€œHow much is in there?”
    â€œTwenty K, brother. The reason I had to drive my ass all the way up here instead of flying. But like I said, it’s only part.”
    Greggs drew the envelope closer, slipped off the rubber bands. The cigarette bobbed in his lips, ashes falling in his lap. He opened the envelope, looked through the manicured bills.
    â€œNice and clean,” Hicks said.
    â€œI can see that.” He riffled the bills with a thumb, closed the envelope again, set it beside the .45. “I’ve still got thirty coming.”
    â€œI know it. He knows it, too.”
    â€œYou still working for that old