Brewster’s hand is unconventional. It was maligned during the liberations of Vietnam and Kuwait. His weekends are as complex as most — coffee, morning news, pop tarts, grocery store, post office, couch, Montel, Taco Bell, skin sites, beer, bed.

He used to work at Al’s Hardware and Mr. Video. Now things are different. A driver goes places — makes sacrifices, takes a few for the team. Less Montel, more Taco Bell.

Yes, Brewster Middleman loves his new job. Hank doesn’t yank him around — even pays for his gas. It’s interesting work. He drives an old hearse equipped with a hydraulic backend. Doesn’t ask questions — just picks up cargo, drops it off…gets the job done.

His appearance is unassuming: wavy, dirty blonde hair just greasy enough to stay in a neat pile, round-rimmed spectacles, tight-fitting stone washed jean jacket, drab corduroys, and an untucked oxford button-down shirt. The sparse everyday traffic dissipates as he rolls slowly down the street. No need for a police escort in Westerly — folks are genuine, polite…genuflecting.

His old Toyota didn’t eat up as much gas, but the new ride is smooth as a magic carpet. Feels like he’s always driving in the clouds — home free, not a care in the burg. And Hank. Hank is nice — even had the tailor sew him a special pair of gloves — three fingers and half a thumb.

But days turn into nights as he comes home in time to see home fitness infomercials and static. Only fire hot cheetos and powdered milk remain in his cupboard. He nods off and then the phone rings.

“Brew, Baby. I need a quart of Vaseline and some scissors, you up?”

“Mmyeah. Be right there.”

The familiar smells of formaldehyde, leather, and freon command his trance. He’s back on the road — a familiar path glows ahead. Ol’ Herbie turns himself and there it is…the 21st century: iridescent and unsympathetic hulking dominance lording over barren asphalt.

***

That’s a decent enough beginning. Enough to shout at me from under my desk lamp across the room — FINISH ME.

I was probably about to write something fantastic, profound even, when my phone rang. It was Larry.

“Goddamit, Craig. They’ve finally done it – crashed the Chrysler. Meet me tomorrow for breakfast.”

They had lived in constant fear of such an event. Never did they leave the house without road flares and a cumbersome pile of flammable, wooly blankets. In fact, it was that morbid fascination…preoccupation that had kept me away from the ill-fated semi-annual family excursion to San Antonio.

Tired of the hemming and hawing about danger — alligators, airline terrorists, SUV rollovers, child abductions, socialist hurricanes…I had, much to the chagrin of the fam, decided to take a break. I’d just sit one out and try to make some progress on the story.

I would have been writing about Brewster’s ex-wife. I could have dedicated an entire chapter to her drunken escapades. Linda, the abusive ex-nurse with the acerbic wit and bad hair of a daytime court judge; her shrill voice had anthropomorphized my mid-afternoon migraine.

But this call from Larry had brushed the memory of Linda aside for the moment. The heaviness didn’t hit squarely, but lurked around the perimeter — waiting for an open hole in my psyche — a vulnerable scar leftover from a deep, old nasty gash.

So, the big, fat, stoic silence grabbed my spine and held on tight. I’m sure several seconds passed. I heard Larry’s breath: even and steady after all these years — the deep slow breath of a scuba diver: a man accustomed to the bends.

“So, we’ll eat then…”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

I flipped the lamp switch and hopped into my cozy twin bed, wondering if I was a protagonist or antagonist.

We met for lunch the next day at a small taco establishment. He stepped out of his anonymous brown compact, adjusted his spectacles, and walked toward me with an outstretched hand. I shook it. His face, more than ever, was shaped by a slight but pervasively detached dread — resigned to the inevitable like a veritable old monk.

I’m always cautious of that hand as though I might crush it — a small bird — through carelessness. Yet, that so-called hand is the least vulnerable thing about him; it twisted my sweaty palm like a loose doorknob.

“Tacos” I said.

A faint smile traced his lips; he nodded.

“Yes, Cousin.”

Giacone’s was a real stand-up joint serving beer for breakfast with a wedge of lime for posterity. He ordered two fried fish and egg tacos with extra hot sauce. The spicy scent kept Larry civil.

The cashier displayed her shiny teeth, biting her lower lip. Brown hair rested loose on the shoulders of her white-collared blouse. Larry stared back intensely. A grin flickered near the corners of his mouth as he collected his change.

I quickly ordered a carnitas, hash brown, and egg burrito and we sat down at a quiet table near the vacant adjacent lot. The near constant eye contact shook the pit of my empty stomach.

“So, I guess we should… Maybe we can…”

“Your order,” she interjected. Her steps were quick and light. Leaning far over the table, she placed the trays before us.

“It’s alright. I have the spare time… to, you know, arrange it. I just need a….”

“Can I help you with anything else?” Her hands rested firmly on her hips. Her head cocked to one side; she looked back and forth between us, tapping a menu slowly on her thigh. Larry rolled an orange toothpick between his thin lips, leaning back slightly in his chair.  The hot breeze pushed empty taco wrappers past our feet and traffic slid by on the adjacent street.

“We’re good,” I said.

The beers were ice cold in small frosty mugs. We sat munching. His face hadn’t changed a bit; only slightly deeper were the creases of middle age present in his leather-shined forehead. I glanced sideways at the thousands of tiny open pores, each representational of another Bloody Mary, extra Tabasco. The same spectacle-magnified pale blue stare carved a beam of concentration over my right shoulder as tiny bits of salsa-fried cod dribbled down from lips to chin.

I looked down and my beer was empty — didn’t remember drinking it. I sucked on the lime rind as consolation. The bitter beer aftertaste waltzed with the sweet citrus remains.

“A favor,” he whispered.

She walked back toward the stand, turning once to catch our eyes.

***

His car, beastly old symbol of reliability; it shuddered; trembled like a sea-weathered old sailor in the grips of pneumonia. Gasping, wheezing, smoking, then sputtering, Brewster still kept the faith. That is until flames shot out of the hood.

He sailed out of his open window into the dewy grass. Quickly up on his feet, he burst into his apartment, snatched the fire extinguisher, pulled the pin, and coolly doused the flames. Through the smoke, he glanced down at his digital watch. It chirped the half hour and a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead.

He walked across the parking lot, hoisting the fire extinguisher slowly above his head.  And with loping desperation, he crashed it through the driver side window of an ’86 Camaro. Brewster’s arms were bleeding beneath his cardigan sweater. He did not know this, but he did know that his hands were busy boosting the first car he had ever owned.

The back wheels fishtailed slightly along the moist asphalt with controlled recklessness as he pressed the accelerator further toward the floor. The red light up ahead blinked “look both ways.” He flew through several such lights, heading straight for the only store still open. With minutes to spare, he spun the car into a CVS parking lot with a screech from hell. His legs jogged for the first time in years and once inside, he sprinted for back of the store. Grabbing a large tube of lube, he continued out the back. Piercing alarm tones followed him into the parking lot as he jumped back into the roughly idling Camaro. Visibly bored employees walked out the open back door to catch a glimpse.  They witnessed a cloud of smoke and a near accident leaving the parking lot. A green blur shot down the main drag of Corgansville. Security tapes would turn up surprisingly little more evidence: three rear angle action snapshots of a denim-clad figure wearing dark tinted aviator sunglasses.

But Brewster was heading for less than anonymity on the outskirts of town. Hank, by most accounts, was a pillar of unparalleled justice…except for the small issue of timeliness.

***

Prison hadn’t changed Larry.  He still didn’t look capable of murder. I suppose that’s why the judge and jury saw it fit to convict him of manslaughter rather than murder, eight years instead of twenty.

The man killed his boss. Self defense? I’d like to think so.

As he finished his beer, I eyed him sideways, admiring the strength of his maimed hand. Sweat rolled down the outside of the bottle. I pictured it gasping for air…losing liquid life. My mind wandered to shouting in the driveway of a first rate mansion. Through the immaculately rounded hedges, I saw streetlight shine off a black metal pistol. It cocked hollow and then came the fleshy sound of an arm falling forcefully out of socket.

I’d been in the courtroom; heard the testimony. Witnesses described a “grotesque gurgling sound” audible from the balcony above. I saw medical x-rays and crime scene photos. The thought of that crushed larynx made me grasp my throat. And I hailed our waitress for another beer.

Larry kicked my foot under the table. He cleared his throat. I had, after all and against my better judgment, agreed.

“I’ll have another, please…and my friend here…he’d like to know what time your shift ends.”

She brushed a piece of hair back behind her left ear and smiled.

“I’m Linda,” she said. “And you are my last table.”