Page 91 of Collateral Claim

“Eight cars,” he says.

“That’s a lot of cars.”

“Eight of them,” he repeats.

“I get the impression the number is significant.”

“Can I come in?” Slada asks from behind the closed cabin doors.

Endo lets her in, and, hands on her hips, she says, “Eight cars. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Mmhm,” Endo answers.

When he looks at me, I shrug. “Given that I’m in the dark over here, I’m thinking my dad considers you armed and dangerous, so he needed extra manpower. Hence the eight cars.”

“Full of armed men,” Slada says.

“They could also be women,” I add.

Slada giggles, and her feminine, soft laughter strikes me as uncharacteristic for her. But maybe the prospect of a gunfight brings out her girly side. Hey, I love treating diseases that cause pain and death, so if that tickles my fancy, gunfights could be her thing.

She removes her vest and hands it to me.

I accept. “Do you have a spare for yourself?”

“Of course,” she says. “I come prepared.”

“You know,” I say as I examine this attire I’ve never worn before, “in another lifetime, we would’ve been friends.”

“We don’t get another lifetime.” She pauses when I look up. “Put on your vest.”

We don’t get another lifetime.I slip on the vest, and the first thing I notice is how heavy it feels. “But what if we do get another lifetime?”

Endo takes off his shirt, and she helps him with his vest, which is much thinner and tighter than mine.

“I don’t want to know if I get another chance at life.”

“Why not?”

Slada purses her lips and tilts her head, her ponytail sliding sideways. “If I know I get two, I’ll fuck up this one. I’ll take this life and the people I’ve met for granted. I’ll start thinking I get a second chance and that time is infinite. I’ll make mistakes, thinking I can fix them. I’ll become callous and uncaring.”

Huh. “I’ll think on this when I get home. Thanks.”

“Anytime. Just keeping it real.” She pulls out a gun and checks the magazine, then pushes it back into its holster. “Good God, how I wish I could use a machete. Amen.”

Was that a prayer?

Endo’s muscles flex as he buttons his white shirt over the vest. He shrugs on a suit jacket. Weapons check is next. Endo prepares for an armed conflict the way a surgeon scrubs in for a procedure.

“Do you want one?” he asks me as Slada hands him a piece of gum. He chews violently, his jaw working out the mystery and the anger at the eight-car surprise my dad arrived in.

Palm out, I say, “Yes, please.”

He hands me a gun. “Just aim and shoot at any motherfucker you feel like.”

I pick up the gun with the tips of my fingers and dangle it before Endo. “I thought you were offering megum.”

“Take the pistol,” Slada says.