Page 499 of Devil’s Disciples

He sipped his coffee. “You just came by to check on me. Isn’t that fucking thoughtful.”

“I thought you didn’t like coffee.”

He peered into the cup. “I don’t.”

“Got any more?”

“Pot’s over there.” He gestured toward a vintage coffee maker at the end of the bench. “Mugs are scattered around. Clean ones are upside down.”

I filled a cup and leaned against the bench at his side. After a few sips of the powerful brew, I let out a sigh.

“How often do you flip out?” I asked.

“Around here? Daily, pretty much. Feel like a fucking babysitter, most of the time. Someone’s always doing or saying something ri-fucking-diculous. I swear, you’d think these men were raised by baboons.”

I arranged an assortment of bolts that was scattered on top of the bench. “I was thinking more, I don’t know, like flipping out, flipping out.”

“Gonna have to be more specific than that, Brother.”

I kicked the toe of my boot against an oil stain on the floor in front of me, wishing I could make it go away. “Does that shit we did overseas ever come back to haunt you? Make you curl up in a ball and wish it never happened?”

He finished his coffee and then set his cup aside. After gazing the length of the shop for a moment, he faced me. “Used to be every few months, or so. Found out if I kept myself busy, really busy, it didn’t happen as often. Then, it was once a year, generally around the holidays. Now? Doesn’t really happen at all. Why? You having problems?”

I continued my assault on the spot of oil. “Each time the sun rises, I have problems. Some days worse than others, I suppose.”

“Get a tingling feeling first?” he asked. “Like a weird itch?”

“Yeah. Kinda.”

“Then, just a slow melt-down? Like you’re going down the drain in a spiral?”

I choked on my saliva, and then looked at him. “Hell, I thought I was all alone. Like, some fucking weirdo, or something.”

“Can’t ask a man to do what we were asked to do, and have any expectation that there won’t be repercussions,” he said. “Our minds are struggling to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense. The men I killed that I never saw their faces? The long-distance shots? You’d think they’d bother me the least. Seems I thought about them more than anything. Killing the fucking drug dealers that tortured Cholo? I stood six inches from ‘em and shot ‘em in the face. Never came back to haunt me once.”

“Smells ever bother you? Like, smell something and get a weird feeling?”

“Used to, yeah. Smell of stale sweat. Old pile of clothes at Curly’s house, once. Happened in my garage one day. Couple of times when Pee Bee came here from the gym. Probably the reason I don’t go to gyms.”

“Alacrán’s cologne about made me snap,” I admitted. “Luckily, we got out of there before I lost it.”

“His cologne? Wonder why?” He shook his head. “It’s weird, huh?”

I nodded and took a sip of the rot-gut coffee. “Uh huh.”

“You end up losing your shit after you left my place?” he asked. “Because of his cologne?”

“Nope.”

“Something else bothering ya? You having problems with what happened in the parking lot? Did stuffing those fuckers in that oven—”

“Killing those two turds?” I laughed. “Haven’t given it a second thought.”

He smirked. “Why are you here, Brother?”

I finished my coffee, and then glanced around the shop.

“Won’t find the answer on the shop floor,” he said with a laugh. “Just speak your mind. I’m not going to criticize you.”