Chapter Sixty-One
Quinn leaves the diner defeated. No one in this town is going to just hand over the reverend’s home address to a stranger.
As he walks down Main, he considers his options. Keep calling the church in case someone answers? Head back to Omaha? Maybe he should call his boss, who has a contact at the DMV he pays for information—he’ll be able to get him an address. But that will take time.
As he heads back to his car, something draws his eye.
The sign for the VFW. At Quinn’s checkups at the VA hospital, the doctors and counselors always encourage him to get involved with the Veterans of Foreign Wars, fellow soldiers who could provide friendship and support.
He never has, largely because he imagined it would be full of eighty-year-old men telling war stories.
But fuck it. He’s come this far. Maybe brothers-in-arms will trust him enough to give him the address for the Agnesses. Maybe they know the man with the eye patch.
Ten minutes later, he sits at the bar at the somewhat dreary complex. And Quinn was right—the age gap between him and the dozen or so patrons is significant. But they’re a lively bunch.
At a tall table, a group is slamming beers and creating a ruckus. One of the men comes over to the bar—which is self-serve and has only two taps for draft beer. As the man refills his pitcher, he nods hello at Quinn.
“You’re new around here,” he says.
Quinn nods.
The man wears jeans, a short-sleeve button-up shirt, and a cap that reads, USS DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER. “I’m McClung. Paul McClung. Come on over, meet the boys.”
Quinn steps down from the bar and follows McClung to the table with the others.
“Boys,” McClung says, “we have a new friend visiting from…”
“Omaha,” Quinn says. “Nice to meet you.”
There’s a din of friendly hellos and the men continue with their conversation. Quinn is surprised that the topic is a new medication that they refer to as “boner pills.”
One of the oldest of the group, Lenny is his name, tells Quinn, “These things work so well, my wife keeps hiding the pills from me.”
“Hell,” one of his buddies says, “I’d hide them too to keep your wrinkled ass off me.”
The group laughs.
“Fair,” Lenny says.
Paul McClung turns to Quinn. “Sorry. This group likes to debunk the theory that age brings wisdom.”
Quinn smiles.
“There is some wisdom here from us old-timers,” Lenny chimes back in. “Use your pecker as much as you can now while you can!”
They all break into laughter again.
“I’ll do my best.”
“What branch?” another of the men asks.
“Army.” Quinn tells him his battalion and regiment.
“That how you got that limp and beauty mark?” McClung asks.
Quinn nods.
“Iraq?”
“No, Somalia.”
That elicits a groan from all of them.
“Total shit show,” McClung says. “We had no business there. Damn politicians.”
More grumbling.
“You were part of that Blackhawk that went down?”
Quinn has no choice but to go to that place that he doesn’t like to go. “No. I was injured a few weeks after that. Tensions were high as we were planning the withdrawal…” He doesn’t need to say more. The debacle with the Blackhawk helicopter was big news. He heard they’re making a movie about it.
“What brings you to Fairlane?” the youngest of the group says, like he senses Quinn could use a change of subject.
“Work.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s your business?”
Quinn decides to be straight with these men. “I’m a private investigator.”
“Ah,” Lenny says. “Dave, your wife finally hired someone to find your pecker.”
“Jesus, Lenny, can you ever talk about something other than peckers?” says McClung.
Quinn dips his toe in: “I’m here to interview someone for a case I’m working on, but I’m having a heck of a time finding their address.”
This quiets the men.
“But that’s okay,” Quinn says, reading the room. “I got to meet you all, so the day isn’t a total loss.”
The guys fill up another pitcher and grouse about the price of gas, which is now $1.
06 a gallon, and politics, tornadoes, Tammy Wynette’s death.
Quinn considers asking if they know the man with the eye patch, the ex-con, who was part of a church program, if they know the home address of the reverend and his wife.
While they seem to like Quinn, he knows they won’t give him anything.
And, besides, he’s enjoying hanging out with them.
The men disappear one by one for home until only Quinn and Paul McClung remain.
“Forgive us, son. It helps to laugh when you’ve lost people.”
The man holds his gaze. Quinn isn’t sure if he’s referring to the inevitable loss of people as you age or losses on the battlefield.
McClung looks at his beer. “Dave was in Nam. He’s the only one left from his high school graduating class.
Every one of us has lost brothers.” He points to the north wall of the bar past the pool table.
It’s covered with rows and rows of photographs, headshots of men and women in uniform.
Above the photos are the words, WALL OF HEROES.
Oof.
They sit in silence for a long moment. Finally, Quinn says, “Does it get easier?”
McClung thinks on this. “It never goes away. And the hard part is that your family and civilian friends don’t understand—how could they?
You can’t explain fear like that. Or what losing the guy who had your back does to you.
” He offers a tender smile. “That’s why I spend time with those knuckleheads. ”
Quinn nods.
“But yeah, it gets better.” McClung pauses and examines Quinn again. “If you don’t get in your own way.”
Quinn feels a tear roll down his cheek. He brushes it away with his hand quickly, surprised, embarrassed.
“So who is it you’re looking for in town here?” McClung asks, pretending not to notice.
Quinn tells him.
“Not a churchgoer myself,” McClung observes without providing the Agnesses’s address. Before Quinn can ask about the man with the eye patch, McClung excuses himself to the restroom.
Quinn feels a hollowness in his chest. He wonders what it’s like to have a group of friends to razz you. To hang out with and drink beers and understand without any of you talking about it. It probably feels good, he thinks. And he has been getting in his own way.
He takes the last gulp of his beer. The old veteran returns and Quinn puts out his hand for a shake. “It was really great to meet you and the guys, Paul.”
“It was good to meet you, Quinn. Come back anytime, son.” Shaking Quinn’s hand firmly, McClung palms him a cocktail napkin. Quinn unfolds the napkin. On it is a handwritten map.
“Be careful on those back roads. They’ll rattle the fillings out of your teeth.” McClung tips his hat and ambles out.