He made a big deal out of feeling the skin on the bar, pulling out a gin bottle, and examining the damned thing like it was a newborn child. He poured himself another drink over crushed ice.

“Eddie,” he began, “I want you to quit messin’ with Clyde’s wife. You know more ‘an anyone his head ain’t right. I need that boy. If he falls again, we all do. Comprende, podna?”

“Ah, fuck you, Cook. Ain’t none of your concern what goes on in my world.”

Porter caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror behind the bar and he somehow looked smaller than he felt.

“Just stay away from there tonight,” Cook said, feeling for one of his silly cheetah-print chairs like a blind man. He sat down with a sigh and closed his eyes. “Just stay away from there tonight.”

“I’m quitting,” Porter said, walking away. “Find someone else to shovel your shit.”

“Eddie?”

He turned back.

“How long we knowed each other?”

Porter shrugged.

“I consider you a friend.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Do what you need to do. But do it tonight. Stay away from Clyde’s wife.”

Porter gave a short laugh with his exhaling breath.

“You ain’t listenin’,” Cook said again. “Do what you need to do. But keep away from there tonight.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Porter said. “You motherfucker.”

He picked up a fat gold statue of Buddha and threw it into the glasses and whiskey and flickering red cocktail candles. The mirror broke into jagged knives knocking over the candles and liquor bottles. The glass sounded like tiny bells in the wind.

“You motherfucker,” he said again. It wasn’t a yell. Porter said it more to himself than anything as he headed back to his car.

Twenty minutes later, he sped across Lamar Avenue as slatted light played over his face and prized fingers. Somehow he knew they’d catch up. It just happened a whole mess sooner than he thought.