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around the front of the car, working his way slowly back to the door on the passenger's side. To Charlie's way of thinking, the whole process confirmed just how stiff and immobile a man could get and still get around. Finally, the man opened the door, sagged heavily on the seat beside him, laboriously pulled the door shut and began rubbing his gloved hands together to fend off the cold. |
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"I know it's none of my business, old timer, but what the hell are you doing out here in the middle of this Godforsaken chunk of nowhere in weather like this?" |
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The old man didn't answer. Instead, he collapsed into a racking series of coughs and hacking sounds that compelled Frazier to look away, wishing he hadn't stopped in the first place. There was no telling what kind of germs the old bastard was carrying. One thing Charlie Frazier didn't need was a rotation back to the States only to get himself confined to a sick bay. When the coughing fit had finally passed, Charlie looked his passenger over. The old man was filthy, and a stale, musty, unpleasant aroma had already begun to permeate the interior of the car. |
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"It had ta be," the old man rasped. "It be Tuesday. Tuesday be payday." |
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"Nobody needs money bad enough to haul the old body out in weather like this," Frazier assessed. |
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