Something made a sound.
Morales wasn’t sure if it was the old wooden step itself, his knee, or him reacting to the pain that shot through his knee.
Might have been all three.
Sundover came out on his porch and closed the door behind him.
“C’mon, we’re going to Fillelas.”
Morales stared, pouted.
“You let me walk all the way up the steps before you-”
“Four steps. You’re thirty two years old. Spare me.”
Sundover walked down the steps, hands jammed in his windbreaker pockets, walking with a purpose.
Morales followed, limping.
What are you getting at Fillelas?”
“Candy,” Sundover said.
“They’ve got candy at TownCorner, which is like, right there.”
Morales pointed even though Sundover had his back to him, walking north, toward Fillelas, easily a mile, maybe closer to a mile and a half.
TownCorner don’t have this kinda candy.”
Sundover walked, Morales followed.
They cut through a construction zone on Greenview, had to step down where a layer of concrete was missing.
Morales winced, swore.
“What’s wrong with you?” Sundover asked, far more curious and annoyed than concerned.
Morales was annoyed, annoyed with himself that he didn’t just wait on Sundover’s porch.
They were supposed to watch the hockey game, play some Omaha, maybe a little dice later when Torino was hammered and passing out money. Nothing they needed candy for.
“Messed up my leg last night.”
“Yeah,” Sundover said, “but how?”
“I…” Morales paused. Thought about it. Wanted to lie but somewhere near the truth.
“Messing around on Belle Isle.”
That was too close to the truth, so Morales added “playing soccer,” which was an outright lie.
“You played soccer yesterday? Thanks for the invite.”
“No, no, just…some kids had a ball…we were just messing around, juggling, twisted my knee.”
They kept walking, Morales’s knee aching, him aching to tell Sundover about his night with Hilary Czajka, about the mole on her ribcage that looks kinda like Bugs Bunny, about her tripping backward, naked, in the empty fountain near the Canada side, and him catching her before she hit her head, wrenching his knee in the process. Probably tore ligaments or something.
As they got closer to 8 Mile Road, Sundover heard singing over the hiss of the traffic.
No, not singing, chanting.
There was a group of voices, followed by a single voice coming from a megaphone.
Unintelligible at this distance.
“What kinda candy is worth this walk?”
“I dunno, some overpriced dark chocolate with ginger bits in it.”
“You just said that like it’s a prescription you have to buy,” Morales said.
Sundover stopped.
“There’s some kinda march going on up here, protest or something.”
“Yeah,” Morales said, distracted, sublimating the ache in his knee by daydreaming about Hilary.
“We better be able to cut through it,” Sundover said. “I feel fine but I don’t feel like walking another mile out of my way to get to Fillelas.”
“Why are you getting this candy again?” Morales asked. He was starting to think he should just sit down and wait for Sundover.
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