“Then nothing happens with the documents, and S. gets to go on living his life.”
“It’s not a bad life.”
“Neither is mine.”
“That’s all fine,” he said, “but nobody lives forever.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“I’m not wishing it on you, God knows, but you could die of natural causes.”
“I hope to, eventually.”
“And if that should happen—”
“It’d be exactly the same as if somebody shot me in the mouth and the forehead,” I said. “The two documents would get delivered. But the odds are you’d have nothing to worry about by then.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, you’re three years older than I am. You’re carrying more weight, and how much do you smoke? Three packs a day?”
He’d just taken a cigarette from his pack, and he put it back. “I’ve been thinking about cutting down.”
“Ever try cutting down in the past?”
“Maybe a couple of times.”
“Have much luck with it?”
He returned the pack to his pocket. “You never know,” he said. “What’s your point exactly?”
“You’re overweight and you smoke. You drink, too.”
“Not that much.”
“A lot more than I do. What’s my point? My point is you’ll probably die before I do, in which case you’ve got nothing to worry about. And if you wind up outliving me, well, that’ll be time enough to worry about some charges that nobody could make stand up in court anyway.”
“Jesus,” he said, and frowned. “What happens if you start drinking again?”
“It would be better for both of us,” I said, “if I don’t. So the next time you get the urge to pick up a bottle or two of Maker’s Mark, make sure you drink it yourself.”
“I knew that fucking bourbon was a bad idea. I got carried away with the beauty of it all. You know, you walk in, there’s the glass, there’s the bottle. I figured it would have an impact.”
“Well, you were right about that.”
“What effect did it have? Were you tempted?”
“You have any fear of heights?”
“Heights? What the hell has that got to do with anything?”
“I just wondered.”
“I don’t mind airplanes. I’m closed in, I’ve got nothing to worry about. But, like, being out on a ledge, or near a cliff—”
“That’s different?”
“Very.”
“I’m the same way. You know what the fear is? That I’ll want to jump. I don’t want to jump, but I’m afraid I’ll suddenly get the urge.”
He took this in, nodded.
“I didn’t want to drink. But it was there, and I was afraid that I would want to. That I’d be struck by an impulse I couldn’t resist.”
“But you weren’t.”
“No.”
“As I said, the minute I got out of there and thought about it I knew it was a bad idea. But we’re both here, aren’t we? We both survived. You know, the Mexicans have a word for it.”
“Oh?”
“For our situation. But I don’t know how you say it in English. The fucking Mexicans would call it
He took out his pack of cigarettes, shook one loose, put it between his lips. “Fuck cutting down,” he said. “Why would I want to do that?”
When I told Jim about it he took it all in and thought it over and said, “Then it’s over.”
“It looks that way.”
“You don’t have to worry about this fellow anymore? You’ve left him with no reason to kill you?”
“And every reason not to.”
“So it all works out.”
