And A Spud

 343.

He watches with interest as I slide the plastic folding chair away from the table and sit. I am immediately struck by his unblinking glare. Behind his brownish-silver untrimmed beard I sense a strong chin, one that I imagine has seen its share of knuckles. His nose I describe as Greco-Roman, and also shows signs of pugilistic trauma. I wonder what would change about him should he crack as smile, a question that I take as my first challenge. I introduce myself and address him using the data from his rap sheet, one Martin "Boots" Shoemaker, born in Beaumont, TX in 1972.

"Well Mr. Shoemaker, this is your lucky day."

My good news only seems to add salt to already gaping wounds, "I want to talk to my lawyer, and until I do, I have nothing to say to you, whether its my lucky day or the one I'm offered a blindfold and cigarette."

"You have no desire to hear what we are offering as a possible way out of this mess?" I try.

He hardens his glare by narrowing his brows and closing his eyelids like a photographer shuttering an iris to limit exposure, which unmistakably asks: "Did you not hear what I just said?"

"How about we do a little horse tradin'? Some old fashioned bartering, you're from Texas right? You know how it works. I give you something - like freedom - in exchange for something - like a few names - and we both gallop into the sunset as winners. A deal like this would break Vegas in a hour."

He laughs; a deep, resonating echo that sounds like it started at the Texarkana State Line, and them bellows: "DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING RAT?"

I take a restorative breath and say as calmly as I am able, "I recognize your code of honor sir, and respect your commitment, however, it seems to me that we have all the cards. We can keep you here until it snows in Hell, you have been classified as an enemy combatant, or we can open a dialogue and see if we can create some wiggle room, maybe even enough to offer you a fresh start. Depends."

I brace for impact thinking the worst and am surprised by the almost instant change in his expression and limited, restricted body language.

"Are you saying that if I 'share some info' that I might walk and get setup with witness protection somewhere, like Puerto Rico?"

"That is exactly what I am suggesting."

"I want a steak first. Big, thick, rare, bone-in Ribeye. Then maybe we'll talk."

"Maybe? For that kind of a treat I'm going to need something more than a maybe."

"Maybe is the best I can do, or its a definite no."

We stare at each other like a pair of bluffing poker punks, neither giving an inch of indication. He finally smiles and says, "Add a cold Lone Star to the order and you'll get a 'definite maybe.'

"You want a potato with that?"