Leverage by Joshua C. Cohen Page B

doing God knows what tonight. Am I right? Huh? Right?”
    â€œDad, we should get—”
    â€œGod dammit , boy!” Mr. Miller lashes out at his son, ears and cheeks growing crimson to match his nose. “Don’t interrupt me again.” Mr. Miller shakes his head and turns back to me, blowing out a stream of air, and the redness fades. “My boy has trouble minding himself. Thinks he’s the man in charge. Well, he may be the man out there with those little faggots and pussies, but around this house, there’s only one big dog.”
    â€œYes, sir!” I say, happy that the beer smoothes my reply and makes Mr. Miller seem more like a joke than a threat. I glance at Scott, catch his eyes narrowing behind his old man’s back.
    â€œYou hear that, Scottie? You hear how he addresses me? Someone taught you good, boy! Someone brought you up right.”
    â€œTh-thank you, sir.”
    â€œI sure would like to meet the parents of such a fine, upstanding young man. Makes me proud to be a part of this mostly derelict human race.”
    â€œDad, maybe we can—” Scott begins, but is cut off again.
    â€œBoy, I am not going to tell you again about interrupting your old man! Now get on in there and grab all three of us a beer. Now!”
    Scott goes into the house without another word and returns with the beers while Mr. Miller and I stand in front of Scott’s car.
    â€œKurt, I sure did like watching you run and block last night. You teach Scottie some of those moves, make a man out of him. He thinks he knows it all. The boy don’t know shit. What you lookin’ at, Scott?” Mr. Miller asks. “You know they’ve been pampering you. You may be the star quarterback here, but once you walk on campus with the big boys, they will knock you on your ass. Am I right?”
    â€œYesssssir,” I say, glancing over at Scott, see him glaring at me . Mr. Miller leans down to rest his beer on the fender of the Camaro, but the can slips off and falls to the ground.
    â€œAhh, for Christ’s sake! Scottie, what the hell are you doing to me here, with this damn car? Can’t drive a truck. Got to have some flashy fairy car with a fancy grille you can’t set nothing on. Jee-zus, what’s the point?”
    â€œYou liked it plenty when Rick bought it,” Scott hisses.
    â€œWhat?! Whaddid you just say?” Mr. Miller squares his shoulders toward Scott like he’s preparing to box his son into the ground. “Blaspheme his name again, boy,” Mr. Miller growls, pulling the cigar out of his mouth, readying for attack. “Go ahead. Test me.”
    â€œHave my buh-buh-beer, sssssir,” I offer, knowing from experience angry drinkers can be distracted with more alcohol. Mr. Miller stands there staring Scott down while deciding something. Then he plugs his cigar back in his mouth, keeping his eyes set on Scott while talking to me.
    â€œBoy, got some good manners on you,” Mr. Miller says, his hand opening expectantly for the almost full can of beer I place in the circle of his fingers like a servant. He likes that. I can tell. “Scottie, you stick with this one. Learn some respect from him.”
    â€œYes, sir ,” Scott says, voice brittle. His face turns raw red as his old man’s while his jaw clenches and unclenches. I swallow nervously. Mr. Miller takes a long pull from my beer, tipping the can up almost vertical, then wipes his forearm across his mouth.
    â€œOkay, you two get out of here. And don’t go knocking up a cheerleader. Don’t think I don’t remember being your age. But the wrong move with one of them girls will put you on the path to food stamps. You remember that and keep it in your pants.”
    Scott’s already in the car, turning over the ignition, when I say good-bye to his dad.
    â€œNice meeting you, suh-suh-sir.”
    â€œYou too, son. Can’t wait to see you run against Millfield