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Lincoln. Something about the way the sun slanted off the
car's side windows. A "dense" look to it.
    And that was it!
    John had bulletproof glass in his car,
in John's world, a necessary precaution. Extra thick glass did
funny things to light. Hard to explain.
    Convinced the car did belong to Johnny
Dosso (the "shooter" of the Three Musketeers,) Z didn't see how he
could have missed John at the party. Though their infrequent talks
were mostly on the phone, Z had seen John now and again.
    Raising the question, could John still
be in the car?
    Unlikely, but ....
    Johnny had been of help to Z; gotten Z
hard-to-get items like fake identity cards and dynamite fuse.
Unfortunately, there was little Z could do for John in return,
except be a friend.
    Deciding he'd better check, Z walked
along the parking strip, more certain as he approached that it was
John's car.
    Detouring around the back of the limo,
the car's engine idling, Z came up on the other side to bend down
and look through the inch-thick driver's side window -- seeing
someone slumped behind the wheel.
    John.
    Was John sick? ........
    My God! Carbon monoxide!
    Frantically, Z tried the door! ....
Locked.
    Pounding on the thick window with no
effect, Z bent over again, shading his eyes with his hands to look
through the darkened glass ... to find himself staring into the
barrel of a gun!
    Startled, Z pulled back; saw the
black-tinted glass whisper down; felt the cold, inside air spill
out.
    "It's the Z-man! How are ya, Z-man?"
Johnny was drunk. "Didn't mean to scare you," Johnny continued in
his unnaturally high voice, reaching under his hand-tailored
summer-weight coat to fumble the gun into its shoulder
holster.
    "Come on in." John waved at the other
side of the car. "Too damn hot out there. Got it cranked down to
zero in here. Come on in and have a drink."
    Drunken friends to be humored, Z
walked around the back of the car; opened the heavy passenger door;
backed into the sofa-soft black leather seat, and dragged his bad
leg inside.
    Swallowed in the cave-like luxury of
the custom Lincoln, Z tugged on the silk-handled door pull, the
door closing with the "thunk" of a tank turret.
    It was cold inside.
    The car smelled like new leather and
Old Crow, a capped pint between them on the seat.
    "Forgot. Forgot you don' drink,
Z-man." John was slurring his words. "Cause of your sainted
Mama."
    Picking up the whiskey bottle,
twisting off the cap with a practiced motion, John took a long
pull. "Nev'r be too 'shamed to drink right out'a the bottle, my old
man used to say. Better 'an breaking off the neck on the edge of
the bar, booze and glass all over." Johnny looked over at Z, John's
eyes glazed. "He use'a do that, you know that? Even after he got
rich. So's he don't get too high-falutin' was his
excuse."
    "Yeah."
    "You been ta the reunion?" Drunk, John
changed subjects like a jukebox flipping records.
    "Some."
    "I'm goin', soon as I get myself
'nother nip." John uncapped the bottle again. Took a drag. Replaced
the cap. "See anybody you know?"
    "Ted."
    "Be jus' like him to come to a shindig
like this. Show off his tin badge. He was always a dumb ass. It's
just that bein' a dumb ass don't show as much in high
school."
    They sat there for awhile, John taking
sips of booze.
    John looked ... old ... his face a map
of Bermuda-tanned lines, his substantial nose more hooked than Z
remembered. Johnny was wearing a monogrammed, white silk shirt with
diamond cufflinks. White wool pants. Italian shoes.
    "I can't go," Johnny said at last,
more to himself than to Z. "Can't go."
    Z glanced over to see tears running
down John's cheeks.
    Johnny always felt things more than
other people, as a child, cried more than anyone when he fell and
hurt himself, laughed too loud and too long.
    Why did kids have to grow
up?
    "You know me, Z. ... I'm not a bad
guy. Hell, I'm no wors' 'an most. I'm in the entertainment
business. Just like Worlds of Fun." John giggled at that thought.
Took a wet wheeze of breath.