Killing Down the Roman Line Read Online Free PDF

You still trying to move that tractor? The 89 Deere?”
    “Don’t tell me that old dinosaur of yours finally gave up the ghost.”
    “What are you asking for it?” Jim winced. He’d meant to word it differently instead of plainly asking to be fleeced.
    “You’re gonna take advantage of me now, in my hour of despair?” He thumbed the game, mock anguish on his face. “That’s just damn cruel, Hawkshaw.”
    “I’ll drop by the shop sometime. When you’re sober.”
    Hitchens turned to Puddycombe, pouring on the false shock. “Listen to him, trying to swindle a dealer.” He wrapped his hand over Jim’s shoulder and pulled him close. “Forget that old heap. I got a great Kioti loader on the lot. Like new. Twelve G’s. Just for you.”
    “You’re upselling the wrong guy. Old and used is my budget. Less than.” Jim kept the tone hearty and inebriated but it still stung his cheeks, bartering down for a used-up piece of equipment.
    Hitchens smiled at him, sensing a kill. “Maybe you better come by the shop. We’ll work a few options. But don’t even ask about trading in that relic of yours.” He turned and clocked an eye on Emma and Travis at the table. “I see ya brought the brood out tonight. You win the lotto?”
    “Nope. A fresh start.” Jim clinked his pint against Hitchens’s glass.
    “Ha. That’s a good one. Didn’t no one tell you there’s no such thing?”
    Puddycombe snapped his towel at Hitchens. “Don’t ruin the man’s night out, Dougie. Go on back to the fam dam, Jim. And take this for Emma.”
    Puddy slid a glass of house red towards him. Jim took up the drinks and retreated before Hitchens started up again. He manoeuvred back to his table just in time to see Audrey drop a tray of glasses and holler for the busboy.
    Jim settled into his chair and laughed, knowing full well that Puddycombe didn’t employ a busser. The bar owner would be left sweeping up the mess himself.
    “What’s so funny?” Emma said.
    ~
    The meal was fine. Nothing spectacular, but satisfying. The novelty of it, Emma thought, considering how rarely they had a night out anymore. The break from routine and the exhausting task of deciding what to cook each night. Jim’s reasons for celebrating still didn’t sit well but she didn’t have the energy to argue the point. Why spoil the evening?
    “You all right?” Jim touched her elbow as they stepped out into the parking lot. “You’re awfully quiet.”
    “I’m good.” She put a hand on Travis’s shoulder. “Did you get enough to eat, honey?”
    Travis simply grunted and shrugged off her hand, wary of even the simplest sign of affection in public. That age. He underscored the point by belching as loud as he could.
    She swatted the back of his head. “Manners.”
    They heard the brawling before they saw it. Angry voices cursing blue into the night air. Parking lot donnybrooks were not uncommon outside the Dublin House but this was early. And a Tuesday night. Two men facing off between the parked cars. The younger guy Jim didn’t recognize, a hipster doofus in skinny jeans and tattoos. Not a townie, some college kid from nearby Exford or Garrisontown.
    The other one Jim knew by voice alone.
    Bill Berryhill was a monster in scuffed work boots and a stained T-shirt. Knuckles hardened to stone. Jim had known him since grade school and even back then Berryhill was a pissed-off asshole looking for a fight. Jim hated him but didn’t ever want to tangle with him. Who would?
    “C’mon asshole,” Bill Berryhill bellowed, nostrils flaring like a bull. “Say that shit to my face!”
    Clearly Hipster Doofus didn’t get the memo about avoiding ogres while visiting Pennyluck and had pissed off Berryhill. Not that that was hard. Simply existing was cause enough for Bill to want to scrap. Doofus was talking tough but he kept backing up, already losing. Berryhill shoved him hard, hurtling him right into Jim. Jim caught the windmilling man, kept him upright. Doofus threw