Silo's pickup had a custom paint job that was an odd mix between gold and red. The wheels glistened with silver and the windows werepitch black. "There he is," Paul said asthe truck rolled to a stop near the gate.
"What kind of truck is that?"Neely asked.
"Stolen I'm sure."
Silo himself had been customized—a leather WWII bomber jacket, black denim pants, black boots. He hadn't lost weight, hadn't gained any either, and still looked like a nose tackle as he walked slowly around the edge of the field. It was the walk of a Messina Spartan, almost a strut, almost a challenge to anyone to utter a careless word. Silo could still put on the pads, snap the ball, and draw blood.
Instead he gazed at something in the middle of the field, perhaps it was himself a long time ago, perhaps he heard Rake barking at him. Whatever Silo heard or saw stopped him on the sideline for a moment,then he climbed the steps with his hands stuck deep in the pockets of his jacket. He was breathing hard when he got toNeely . He bearhugged his quarterback and asked him where he'd been for the past fifteen years. Greetings were exchanged, insults swapped. There was so much ground to cover that neither wanted to begin.
They sat three in a row and watched another jogger limp by. Silo was subdued, and when he spoke it was almost in a whisper. "So where are you living these days?"
"The Orlando area," Neely said.
"What kind of work you in?"
"Real estate."
"You got a family?"
"No, just one divorce.You?"
"Oh, I'm sure I got lots of kids, I just don't know about 'em.Never married.You makin' money?"
"Getting by.I'm not on the Forbes list."
"I'll probably crack it next year," Silo said.
"What kind of business?" Neely asked, glancing down at Paul.
"Automotive parts," Silo said. "I stopped by Rake's this afternoon. Miss Lila and the girls are there, along with the grand-kids and neighbors. House is full of folks, all sittin' around, just waitin' for Rake to die."
"Did you see him?" Paul asked.