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him.”
    Marcus was dubious. “Sugar him?”
    Charlie nodded. “He’s a bug killer. Let’s give him some bugs to kill.”
    The next thing he knew, Marcus was following Charlie down the condiment aisle of the supermarket, his arms laden. “Okay, we’ve got honey, molasses, and chocolate syrup. What’s next?”
    â€œSugar,” Charlie replied, hefting a large bag. “Ten pounds ought to do it.”
    â€œTen pounds!” Marcus echoed. “We’ll attract every insect in the state!”
    The older man shrugged. “I’m sure there are a couple of stink bugs in Syracuse who won’t bother making the trip.”
    Marcus started for the checkout counter, but he already knew no money would be changing hands. The cashier made a few notes and waved him along after Charlie, who was already striding through the automatic door.
    Bearing their purchases, they retreated to the park to wait for Kenneth Oliver to close up shop for the day. They had no football with them, so the workout consisted purely of hitting. It was brutal, and yet there was a beautiful simplicity to it—the jarring collision of muscle on muscle, bone on bone. Marcus was never wide-awake like he was when he felt that full-speed contact. Not even when throwing a touchdown pass.
    It was only during their brief breaks that Marcus allowed his gaze—and his doubts—to settle on the supermarket bags leaning against the Remembrance sculpture. Why would a grown man get involved in somebody else’s payback prank? Involved, hell—this whole thing was Charlie’s idea! What was in it for him?
    At the same time, he felt strangely honored that his companion was so dead set on revenge on his behalf. Did the guy consider the two of them such good friends that any insult to Marcus was an insult to Charlie, too? There was nothing halfway about the way they played football together. But beyond that, they were strangers separated by four decades.
    Marcus couldn’t shake the feeling that this was probably a very bad idea. He ought to back away. Yet, at the close of the afternoon, he found himself crouched in the bushes beside Charlie, watching as the exterminator locked the front door of the shop, got into his Toyota, and drove off.
    â€œAll right,” Marcus announced. “You’re the big expert on sugaring. How do we do this?”
    Charlie had the whole thing planned out in the time it took them to cross the street from Three Alarm Park. First he removed the weather stripping that sealed the bottom of the door. Then he squeezed a long line of honey across the crack.
    Marcus watched, fascinated. The man worked with the delicate touch of a surgeon, but there was something more—an athlete’s ability to focus with unwavering concentration. Charlie sugared a store with the same tunnel vision he brought to his beloved “pops.” His lively blue eyes gleamed with purpose.
    Next, he painted the bottom of the door with molasses, all the way to the mail slot, which he propped open with a Popsicle stick.
    In spite of everything, Marcus had to smile. “Pretty slick.”
    â€œAre you kidding?” Charlie chortled. “We haven’t even got to the chocolate sauce yet.”
    That was next, fanning out from the door in long trails. One curled around the side of the building into the weedy lot behind. Another went across the street, where it broke into tributaries leading into Three Alarm Park. A third led straight down the sewer in the middle of the road.
    â€œWhat if somebody sees us?” Marcus asked nervously. There were a few people around, but no one was close enough to get much of a look at what they were doing.
    Charlie was unperturbed as he worked the squeeze bottle. “Let them.”
    Marcus could only marvel at his unflappability. This wasn’t the kind of tab his wife could stop by and settle up. Sure, it wasn’t international terrorism, but