Page 33 of Road Refugees

That day, however, some strange, tall guy with a blond Mohawk strode into the archery range.

He made a bunch of fast, slapping motions at Roman’s hand. “How’s it going, buddy? Hey, I’m looking for Townshend Spiro. Know him?” Without waiting for an answer, he flitted over to Maddy’s brother Speed, making the same hand motions, although Speed seemed prepared for it, and he slapped back. “Townshend Spiro. Know him?”

“I do,” admitted Speed. “But I don’t know you.” The arrow release on his hand looked like brass knuckles, and he brandished them like that.

I went forward. “I know him. But who are you?”

He didn’t try to slap me. “I’m Slappy Lomax. Buddy in arms to Captain Spiro. First Armored Cav.”

Slappy Lomax, Slappy Lomax . . . The name did ring a bell, maybe that night at Bee and Sax’s when I drank a lot of beer, Town had maybe mentioned this guy.

Slappy continued in his scratchy comedian’s voice. “He told me a few days ago he saved a girl from some bikers and came down here to be with some other bikers. He’s not answering his phone. Is he maybe hanging with Crybaby?”

Roman and Speed shared looks. “Yeah,” said Roman cautiously. “There’s a Crybaby.”

I said, “And I’m that girl.”

Arkie had just come in and was playing around in the cash register. “Crybaby’s up at Leaves of Grass.”

“Yeah,” said August, the ganjier. “They’re getting some training sesh with a shroom guy.”

“Don’t call it shrooms,” snapped Roman.

August said, “I can call it shrooms when I want. I’m a weed guy.”

“Ah, magic mushrooms,” said Slappy. “He told me he wanted to grow some.”

I figured why would Town tell that to an enemy? So I said, “I know where Leaves of Grass is. I don’t have a cage, though.”

I supposed we’d all vetted this guy, because August came forward and said, “You can follow me in my cage. I need to go up there anyway to get more product for the store.”

And that’s how I wound up seeing Town again. Town means freedom.

“I just retired from the army,” said Slappy as he started up his truck. We waited for August to drive by in his Smart car so we could follow. “I moved my wife back to New York City, so I decided to take a little R and R and find my buddy.”

“He’s a good buddy to have,” I said, sucking from my flask. I didn’t care what Slappy thought. If anyone was to be a good friend of mine, they would have to know my bad habits. Yet I was surprised when he held out his hand. I thought he was telling me to put it away, as we were pulling behind August now.

“Hit me.”

I giggled as I handed over the flask. But privately I worried there wouldn’t be enough for me if this broke dick kept drinking mine. I’d heard Town call losers that before, or rather men who were messed up, and I liked it. Yet the more Slappy talked, the less I could think of him as a broke dick. He was a genuinely warm-hearted guy—a little imbalanced to be sure, but he had a good head on his shoulders. I realized this was a nice opportunity to grill Slappy about Town.

“Where’d you meet Cap’n Spiro?”

“Operation Inherent Resolve in Syria. The Raqqa Offensive, to you civilians. Crybaby was there, too. I was First Lieutenant under Cap’n Spiro. We were in the same unit that raided a detention center in Raqqa, releasing Syrian prisoners. I gotta say, Spiro is a cool man under fire. He never lost it. Cheese never slid off his cracker. He gave us real talk and we gave him respect. We even respected after he got wounded and refused to leave the country.”

I tried to act suave next to the hard-talking guy with the blond Mohawk. “Yes, this injury . . . Is it better? I’ve never seen him use his cane.”

“I wouldn’t say better. It’s never going to get better, thanks to how long he stayed in-country without getting it diagnosed, getting any meds. But this Linus dog seems to have really helped him. Helped him get off the booze, which I think is the best thing ever, though I am guilty of such indulgence from time to time.” He held out his hand for more, and I gave him the flask.

“Get off the booze?” I repeated. “He was . . . on the booze?”

“Oh hell yeah. We all were. But him especially. His place was known as a giant party house. You would not go there unless you planned on getting blind, passed-out drunk. Gazeboed. Salad barred.”

“Hasselhoffed,” I contributed, remembering a word Brighten had used.

“Slurring your text. He was quite expert at that. The night wasn’t a success unless we’d all passed out in painful places scattered around his condo.”

“Oh. He only had a condo? I mean, he never married?”