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idiots at the CRCC would have grilled this guy for three hours before they got him to admit something like that, and I finessed it out of him with a little chitchat. Jesus, I’m good. Just then a jetliner roared overhead, a big 749. Joe suddenly stood up and looked over at me and said, “Which airline was that?” I thought about the question for a moment and said, “Shit, I dunno, couldn’t possibly recognize it from here, sport.” “The pilot brought that one in way too low, man, it’s against regulations. He scared the shit of all the ducks. Look at ‘em,” he said, pointing out toward the rippled waters of Lake Merit. I strained my eyes, shading them from the afternoon sun that was polishing the surface of the water. I couldn’t see any ducks. “I can’t see any ducks,” I protested. “Of course you can’t, ‘because they’ve all scattered for cover in the rushes.” Time to go, I said to myself and started walking away. “Are you going to report that jetliner?” he asked, brow knitted as if he were truly concerned. “Ah, actually, no—I have a meeting first thing tomorrow and I need to get my ass going,” I answered, placing my right hand on my revolver holster under31

The Metric Issue 08 - Literary Magazine  
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