Mike tries to rip off the armrest, but it’s one of those tested-in-space toughened materials and resists his efforts. He shoots me a look and mutters, ‘You know, Danny. I love my ma, but there’s going to come a point with this guy.’
‘I hear you,’ I say, forgetting for a moment that if Zeb goes in the river, the next splash I hear will be my own.
Zeb is unconcerned by this death threat. ‘Come on, guys. I’m bustin’ your chops, that’s all. Shoving firecrackers up your asses is what makes life worth living.’
‘You’re a funny one, Dr Zeb,’ says Mike. ‘Firecrackers indeed. You want to pull yourself together before you say the wrong thing to the wrong person.’
I add the force of my glares to Mike’s.
‘You should take a photo, Zeb,’ I say. ‘Because this is me agreeing with Mike.’
Zeb takes what looks like a clay urn from a pocket and pulls a cork out with his teeth.
‘Oh, come on, motherfuckers, let’s do shots. This stuff will put hair on your chests.’
Mike grabs the urn and takes a sniff. ‘How about my head? Will it put hair on my head?’
‘Sure,’ says Zeb, dipping his fingers into a cluster of glasses on the shelf. ‘Plus it’s got a kick like a mule on steroids. Monks make it from yak spit. Totally illegal.’
‘Totally illegal, eh?’ Mike is intrigued. ‘How much you paying for that bottle?’
Zeb smells a profit. ‘Ten bucks. I could sell it to you for twelve.’
Mike and Zeb put their heads together and start horse trading as though the former had never kidnapped the latter who had just tried to blackmail the former.
For a second I can’t remember which one of them is my friend, and when I do remember, I can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s time I tried forgetting instead of remembering just for an hour or two.
‘Hey, Zeb,’ I say. ‘Pour me a glass of that yak spit.’
We can talk about the brakes later.
