LITMIR.BIZ

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Ross. That’s ignorance. Don’t go.”

      “Ma.”

      “I don’t like it. Don’t go.”

      “Ma.”

      Ross is smiling. Peacefully. Any red rush has left his cheeks and he looks the part of the grown man he is.

       Adventure.

       The Danes.

      And the popularity and esteem he and his friends have received from being both veterans and musicians. How can they say no when they get so much out of saying yes?

      “Did you read what happened to the other two platoons?” Mom asks.

      Ross nods.

      “Of course I did.”

      “Did you?”

      “I did. They all came back home safely.”

      “No,” Mom says. She slides the paper in front of her son and points to the part she’s talking about. “Read.”

      “Ma, I read it.”

      “Read again.”

      Ross sighs and looks down. He feels a pang of fear, embarrassment, like he’s about to see a whole new paragraph that states clearly the first two platoons were sentenced to death by hanging.

      But that’s not what Mom is pointing at.

       “All members of the previous platoons returned home safely. Empty-handed and flummoxed, but safe.”

      “That’s it,” Mom says.

      “They couldn’t find it,” Ross says.

      Mom shakes her head for the last time.

      “Flummoxed, Ross. You know what that means?”

      “Of course.”

      “No you don’t. Flummoxed doesn’t just mean they couldn’t solve the mystery. That would be ‘unsatisfied.’ Flummoxed stays with you the rest of your life.”

      “Ma.”

      “These men, they’re gonna wonder about that sound … forever.”

      “Ma.”

      “They’re gonna hear it in their sleep. They’re gonna hear it awake … on the streets.”

      “Ma.”

      “Don’t do it, Ross.”

      Ross places his hands over hers.

      “A hundred thousand dollars,” he says. “Each.”

      Mom gets up from the table. She takes the plate from in front of him, holds it sideways over the small silver garbage can so that the bones slide into the bag. Then she places the plate in the sink.

      “Flummoxed,” Mom repeats, leaving the kitchen. Then she appears again in the doorway. “Two weeks?”

      “Two weeks,” Ross says. “In and out.”

      Mom nods.

      “Bring me back some sand.”

      DUANE AND LARRY hit the bar. Where else are they going to go to make a decision like this? Duane takes the stool facing the door. He always faces the door, wherever they go. World War II did that to him. Larry doesn’t mind. Duane faces the crowd, too, sitting at the drums.

      Together they’ve got this corner of the bar covered. An old bluesman, Swoon Matthews, sits alone at the other.

      “You know Philip is gonna want to do it,” Larry says. “He doesn’t say no to anything.”

      “Doesn’t mean we have to.”

      “No, it doesn’t mean we have to.”

      They order White Russians, the drink they drink when they’re trying to mellow out. Both of them can easily recall the sound of the air in the studio splitting apart … the sound of scorched space, and the image of a black mad trail behind it.

      “What do you think?” Larry asks, already knowing what Duane thinks.

      Duane shrugs.

      “Sounds dicey is what I think.”

      “How so?”

      “The other two platoons. I don’t like it.”

      “Don’t like that they didn’t find anything?”

      Duane shrugs again, but it’s not dismissive.

      “Yeah, maybe.”

      Larry weighs out how to say what he wants to say.

      “I bet we can do it.”

      “Of course we’ll find it.”

      The drinks come. Larry pauses. Sips. Then says,

      “You just said that like we’re going to go.”

      “So I did.”

      “So you think we’re going?”

      Duane points discreetly to the end of the bar. He whispers now.

      “Check out Swoon,” he says. “You checking him out?”

      Larry is.

      “Yeah, sure.”

      “What do you think Swoon would do? You think he’d fly to Africa for the army?”

      Larry thinks about it.

      “No. I don’t think he would.”

      “And why wouldn’t he?”

      “I don’t know, Duane. Because he’s a hundred years old?”

      Duane shakes his head no. Sips from his Russian.

      “Because he’s content with doing the same thing every day.”

      “And you’re not?”

      “Have we ever been?”

      Larry nods along. Entering the bar, he thought he was going to be the one doing the convincing. But Duane has turned the tables. Feels wrong. Like one of them ought to be saying this is crazy.

      “We’re thrillers,” Duane says. “If you haven’t figured that out by now, go hang out with Swoon for the rest of the day.”

      Larry eyes the old bluesman. His curly white hair sleeps uneven upon his black wrinkled forehead. He wears sunglasses indoors. Maybe he’s looking back at Larry. It doesn’t matter. Right now Larry needs to look at this man. Needs a reminder of how easy it is to slip into the rest of your life.

      “Some people settle before they should,” Larry says. He doesn’t have to explain what he means. Duane gets it. He speaks this language.

      “No doubt.”

      The two former soldiers and current bandmates sip their drinks. White Russians are to be enjoyed, endured. And decisions like this one are meant to go slowly, even if the decision is already made.

      “So what’s holding us back from telling the others?” Larry asks.

      Duane shrugs.

      “Nothing. We got three hours is all.”

      “Something’s bothering you.”

      “Yeah, something’s bothering me.”

      “In the report.”

      “Yeah, in the report.”

      “What is it?”

      Duane pauses before reaching into his pocket. Larry thinks his drummer, his friend, is going to pull forth the folded papers. Instead he pulls out a packet of cigarettes, taps one out, and lights it.

      Duane

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