Page 25 of Body Count

He didn’t like looking at me—that much was obvious—but he didn’t look away.Maybe it was because he thought it’d make him look like a pussy.Maybe, just maybe, because of his son.All he said was “I remember.That was bullshit, what you said about working with the sheriff’s department.”

I smiled.“Sorry about that.I was the one who found Tip, and—” I made a gesture that took in my scars, the blood-streaked eye.“—I’m kind of personally invested, if you know what I mean.”

He grunted.“I heard about that.Fucking nutjobs can learn how to do anything on the internet.”He seemed to consider if he was going to say more.“We’d just moved here.”

“I wanted to ask you a few questions about Tip.Could I come in?”

Leaves rustled as an eddy of air stirred.It felt like a hot tongue on the back of my neck.

“Why not?”he said.“It’s been a terrible fucking day already.Let’s see if we can make it worse.”

He walked deeper into the house, leavingthe door open behind him.

I caught up with him in the living room.Like a lot of family homes, the furniture looked like it had been accumulated over time, in styles that fit well enough together but clearly hadn’t come as a set.He was already sitting in a recliner.It was the kind of chair only a guy would buy himself—the kind with a built-in cupholder and, I judged by the power cord that ran from the chair to a plug in the wall, some sort of massage and power lift features.He held a sweating bottle of Bud Light, and he looked me over again as he took a long drink.He still had yesterday’s stubble, which was graying like everything else.And he had Tip’s mouth.

He didn’t invite me to sit, so after a moment, I settled on the couch.He looked at me.I had the thought that he wanted to smile.And then he picked up the remote and turned on the TV.It was ESPN.My boy John-Henry watchedFirst Takeon his phone occasionally when it was a slow day, and sometimes, he forgot to close the blinds to his office.

“Do you know where Tip is?”

He took just long enough to answer to make his point.“Nope.”

“Did you know he left town?”

He didn’t even answer this time.He took a long drink of his beer.At this rate, the next drink would kill it.

“I talked to Jordan,” I said, “and he says Tip left three days ago.Nobody seems to know where he is or what’s going on.”

Eddie Wheeler settled back in the recliner, eyes glued to the TV.

“I’m worried that something might have happened to Tip,” I said.“Or that he might have hurt himself.Mr.Wheeler, are you listening to me?”

“I heard you.”

“Could you turn off the television?”

One more of those long pulls drained the bottle.He set it down without looking at me and said, “Get me a beer.”

I almost laughed.The voices on the TV had changed to a high-pitched noise.I said, “Turn off the fucking television.”

He looked at me.Now I was sure he was trying not to smile.“Where’s that beer?”

I walked over to the television and unplugged it.The house was quieter, but that high-pitched noise in my ears got louder.“Your son is missing.”

“Do you know where Tip is?He’s probably on his knees at a truck stop gloryhole, sucking every cock like it’s his last one.”

The AC came on with a click.

“You think I’m an asshole,” Eddie Wheeler said.“But that’s not a guess, son.That’s a fact.That’s where I found him when he was fifteen fucking years old.Some kid at school had been bullying him, so you know what that boy did?He made himself feel better by slurping a load out of every cock in Kansas City.When I went to pick him up, there was aline.”He stopped; emotions warred on his face before collapsing into hostile emptiness.“So, am I worried that my son disappeared?No.He’s an adult.He can drag his own ass home this time when he’s done feeling sorry for himself.”

I wasn’t sure I could say anything, so I was surprised to hear myself saying, “He’s been through something terrible—”

“For fuck’s sake, you sound just like her.That’s all she’ll talk about.Him.Him, him, him.It’s always him.What about me?”His chest rose and fell rapidly.“I had a fucking career before that little faggot did his version ofDebbie Does Dallas.You know what happened after they found out?Nothing.It was over.The end.I was shit-canned without anybody bothering to give me my papers.”He was clutching the arms of the recliner now, his fingertips white where they bit into the overstuffed padding.“You know what my captain said to me?He said, ‘What’s the difference between a fag and afridge?A fridge doesn’t fart when I take my meat out of it.’”He stopped.His face was red, and he breathed hard through his nose.

He was angry, yes.But there was something else in his face.The satisfaction of saying something he’d wanted to say.Something he knew he wasn’t supposed to.

That’s when it clicked.The way he held his beer.The way he talked.Even the fucking recliner.

“I used to know a guy like you,” I said.

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