"If I need it, can you run some forensics tests?"
"Depends what it is you're looking for."
"DNA, blood-typing, fingerprint cross-referencing?"
"That's OK. Small stuff. Just don't be sending no whole body over-or a chicken."
"I'll try not to." Max laughed.
"How's it goin' out there?" Joe asked.
"Early days," Max said.
"If you walk away now the only thing you lose is money. Remember that, brother," Joe said.
Max had forgotten how well Joe knew him. Joe had heard the doubt in his voice. Max thought of telling him about the kids outside La Coupole, but he thought it best not to mention it, let it go, sink through his memories. If he kept it uppermost in his mind, it would cloud his vision, mess with his perceptions. Keep the channel clear.
"I'll remember that, Joe, don't worry."
Max heard the music-Bruce flailing away on acoustic guitar, piping notes through a harmonica like Bob Dylan on steroids. He guessed Joe was at his happiest now, at moments like these, listening to his music, right in the bosom of his beloved family. Joe would always have someone around who cared about him and would care for him. Max wanted to stay there a little longer, listening to Joe's life, listening to the sounds of warmth and tenderness, his home, its parts as fragile as a newborn baby's.
Part 3