“I always thought toasting marshmallows was overrated,” said Pender. “Picking that black shit out of your teeth—yucch!”
“You don’t have to burn them black, y’know.”
“I’m a man of extremes.” They watched the fire for, well, for however long they watched the fire, then Pender broke the silence again. “Hey, Magnum, you want to hear something amazing?”
“Sure,” said Skip. “But I have to warn you, my definition of amazing is a lot different than it was, I don’t know, six, seven hours ago.”
“Is that how long we’ve been tripping?”
“Beats me,” replied Skip.
“And vice versa,” said Pender, confusing both of them.
“You were going to tell me something amazing?” Skip prompted, after what may have been a long pause.
“Oh, right. Here it is: if it wasn’t for Big Luke—you know, Little Luke’s father?”
Skip nodded.
“If it wasn’t for Big Luke, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you.”
Skip waited a few whatevers, then asked Pender if there was an explanation that came with that.
“Oh, right. The thing is, ten years ago, after Big Luke outdrew me in the post office, I swore to myself I’d never wear a kidney holster again. So last year, when the Bureau in its wisdom ordered everybody who was still wearing shoulder holsters to switch to behind-the-backs, I didn’t make a big fuss—that’s not how you do it in the Bureau. Instead I just sort of pretended I never got the memo, and my boss, bless his heart, sort of pretended not to notice. And the kicker, of course…”
Pender opened his jacket to show Skip his calfskin holster, with an inch of shaft sticking out from the safety flap and the arrowhead embedded in the bent trigger guard of the Model 10. “The kicker is that if I’d been wearing a kidney holster instead of old faithful here, then instead of sitting here talking to you I’d be lying dead in the clover with an arrow sticking out of my ribs.”
“That is pretty amazing,” said Skip. “But you know what’s really, really amazing?”
“What’s that?” said Pender.
Skip waved his hand around in a grand gesture loosely encompassing himself, Pender, the slumbering Charles Mesker, the breathtaking view, the earth below and the sky above. “Everything,” he said. “Just…everything.”
Special Agent E. L. Pender raised his pewter flask to the shimmering stars. “I’ll drink to that,” he said.
And he did.
The Boys from Santa Cruz Page 28
