The first time Rufus knocked on Bobby’s door, he held a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker in his left hand and a gun with three bullets inside in his right on the night of his wife’s funeral. His lip was bleeding. “Fell out of the car,” he told Bobby in-between swigs of the whiskey. Bobby handed him some tissues from the breast pocket of his button down flannel shirt.
“You’re bleedin’ on my floor.”
They made it into the kitchen. Bobby took the bottle from him and had a drink, clenching his teeth from the bite of the alcohol. Rufus sat down at the table, resting the gun in his lap and staring straight ahead.