Sawbones

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Soon as I see the police cruiser in the rear-view mirror I know we’re fucked. Friday morning, fifteen miles out from Bloomington, Illinois and pouring with rain. Bouncing back up off the grey tarmac in the early dawn light. The cruiser holds back — must be running a check on our out-of-town number plate. I knew it was a bad idea to steal something with an ‘I Love New York’ bumper sticker. .

Henry’s sitting beside me in the passenger seat. He hears me swearing and turns to stare out the back window. The cruiser’s lights swirl red and white through the rain. The cop wants us to pull over. “God-damn it, Mark,” Henry says to me. “What did I tell you?”

“Hey, don’t look at me, I been driving like an old lady all the way from New Jersey. No speeding, no nothing.”

“Son-of-a-bitch.”

For Henry, that’s pretty mild.

He runs a hand through his long, grey hair and scowls at Jack in the back seat.

“Listen up,” he says. “You don’t do shit unless I tell you. Understand?”

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