The Hardest Thing

crap.”
    We were driving by a dreary looking strip mall. It was dark now, and the neon and fluorescents looked tacky as hell. But there was a gas station and a Price Chopper, so I pulled in. Perhaps if Jody took a dump and got some food, he might cheer up. There had been no sign of pursuit, and provided we didn’t draw attention to ourselves, we should be fine. I figured we’d sleep in the truck—I didn’t want to be noticed more than necessary—but a comfort-and-fuel stop was necessary.
    I pulled into the gas station. Jody got out and strutted toward the bathroom. A couple of mean-looking guys in hunting jackets and Red Sox caps watched him through narrowed eyes as I filled the tank. Guess they don’t see ass of that caliber too often.
    I paid, and followed Jody into the john. He was standing at the basin, T-shirt stripped off, washing himself with soapy water.
    “Hey.”
    “Hey.” It was the happiest he’d sounded in a while, so after I’d taken care of Nature I joined him. He splashed me, I splashed him, and before long we were horsing around like a couple of jocks in a locker room. The floor was wet, but there was a mop in the corner.
I’d wipe up before we left. We were in a hurry, but a marine is not a slob.
    I saw them in the mirror first, standing in the shadows of the entrance, a little lobby between the forecourt and the interior of the bathroom. The overhead bulb had blown so I could see only silhouettes, but that was enough. The two guys in Red Sox caps. They weren’t waiting to use the john.
    Jody was singing some stupid pop song, lathering up his underarms; his shorts were soaking and see-through, and any minute now he’d pull them off and start washing his ass. My face and chest were wet, water dripping off the matted hair. My bag was within reach, and in it, firearms.
    I touched Jody on the arm. “Shh.”
    He flinched, and looked at me. One glance told him all he needed to know. He backed toward the stalls.
    “Well, well, well,” said one of the men, stepping into the light. He was short and dark with deep lines down his face and a two-day beard. “What have we here?”
    I said nothing, just wiped my hands on a paper towel. If it came to action, I did not want slippery fingers. The second guy flanked his buddy on the right—taller by a good six inches, blond, broad shoulders and huge hands. Too heavy to be fast, but strong as an ox.
    Cops? Didn’t look like it. More of Ferrari’s hit men? Possibly, but the fact that they were waiting outside a random gas station made it unlikely. Assholes, that’s all, looking for a fight.
    “Looks like a couple of queers,” said Beardy. The Ox sniggered.
    “We don’t want any trouble.” I’d already worked
out the quickest way of dispatching them: kick Beardy in the guts, then smash the Ox’s head against the tiled wall. A pistol-whipping if they came back for more. I didn’t want a fight; I wanted gas and food and clean clothes at a convenient roadside location. I’d talk my way out of it if I could.
    “Sometimes trouble just comes looking for you, though, don’t it? Shut the door, Hank.”
    Hank? Jesus, what kind of movie had we stumbled into? Hank—the Ox—pushed a thick steel bolt into place. Not the first time they’d been through this little performance, it seemed.
    Beardy thought they had the advantage, and I guess he could be forgiven; we were wet and nearly naked and new in town. Jody certainly didn’t look much of a threat. They’d clocked us getting out of the truck and seen enough to figure out that we were “a couple of queers”—Jody’s shorts left little doubt on that score.
    I wasn’t going to make the first move. We could all walk away from this unscathed; it was up to Beardy. He took a step toward me, scratching his chin; it crackled loud. “Nothing to say for yourself, boy?”
    Boy? It’s a long time since I’ve been, or even looked like, a boy. Beardy may have been a few years older than me—early forties, perhaps—but this wasn’t about age. Any second now he’d start calling us “ladies” or “girls,” and then he would have no teeth left.
    “No,” I said. “Nothing to say.” He took another step toward me. Big mistake. He had placed himself within striking distance.
    “How ’bout your friend? He had such a pretty singing voice.” He made it sound ridiculous: pwiddy
singin voy-uss. Jody was shivering in the corner. “Is he frightened?” Izzy fwighden’d? “Aw. Poor baby.”
    This