Sinker by John Brady

“That wood went clear through Boyle’s hand,” Scotty said.

“Yeah,” Dale agreed, “They’re too damn cheap to sharpen the saw regular. Always throwing off shards. I hate that goddamn saw.”

He slurped his beer and wiped the foam off his mustache before he put the glass down. Dale thought about how much he liked beer and then moved on. “Do you think Christ knew it would hurt much?”

Scotty was watching the TV above the bar. What an evil pitch. The bottom dropped out, and the batter had only the ball’s ghost to swing at. “Strike three! Sit down!” he shouted. He looked at Dale, puzzled, “Huh? What are you talking about?”

Dale poked his index finger into his hand. “You know, when he got crucified and they popped those nails in there. Boyle got me thinking about it. Do you think he knew how much it would hurt?”

The inning was over, and the TV was shilling mattresses. Scotty’s mattress was fine. He turned to Dale. “Yeah, he knew how much it would hurt.”

“How do you think he knew?”

Scotty looked out through the smeary glass of the bar’s front window. He could see the gate across the street. More and more cars were coming in. It wouldn’t be long now before the horn sounded.

“Come on, drink up. We gotta go.”

Insistent: “How did he know?”

“What do you care? You don’t believe that stuff anyway!” Then not quite satisfied, Scotty continued, “Folks just knew. It was common knowledge. They were crucifying people left and right.” He paused. “Or maybe his pops told him. You know telepathically,” and Scotty waggled his hands like waves were coming out of his head.

Dale laughed, but then shook his head. “Nope, he didn’t get it from his father. Do you always tell your kids the truth?”

Scotty drummed his fingers on the bar’s hazy varnish and then shook his head.

Dale took another drink. He watched the pitcher wind up and throw. The ball hit the catcher’s mitt with a loud pop, and Dale let out an excited laugh of surprise. “You know what else I wonder?” he asked. “I wonder if those guys are afraid of getting hit in the head and maybe never waking up. Do you think they think about that?”

“Jesus, Dale. Give it a rest. Finish your beer. Horn’s gonna blow soon. That’s all you need to know.”

John Brady lives in Portland, OR. He’s the author of the not-your-usual LA noir, “Golden Palms.” His other fiction and non-fiction writing has appeared in various outlets, including Exposition Review, Mother Jones, Punk Planet, the Los Angeles Daily News, the San Francisco Chronicle, and on National Public Radio. He’s on twitter @JSBinthe503 and instagram @goldenpalmsnoir.