Twelve and a half years ago. Saturday night. 9:57 P.M. They sat on the porch, rocking in faded recliners that wouldn’t last the summer. Each of them sipped a tall, cool glass of iced tea. Only two smoked fine cigars. Joe was the exception; he seemed ill-at-ease, constantly checking the street as if he might be recognized by a reporter or ambushed from the darkness. Waldo, of course, was most relaxed. He puffed the last quarter of a Macanudo Maduro and stole swallows from a flask he kept sneaking from his pocket. Joe and the judge pretended not to notice. It was understandable; this kind of conversation allowed for that sort of indulgence. Eveline busied herself in the kitchen, out of sight, and Aaron wasn’t home—either on patrol or at the Virgin Megastore on Peachtree, sifting through the racks. Ken rocked forward, ashing his own cigar, and gazed out into the night. The block was silent, the evening serene. He hated to ruin it by continuing their conversation. “Who’s first, then?”
