Most of the time, the answer is no. Andy drove like the map was burnt into his brain, barely looking at the road. Twenty-four minutes later they pulled through gates that said Scarsdale Golf Club. “I thought this was a country club.” “It’s both. Same diff.” Andy rolled his eyes. “Don’t judge.” “Why stop now?” Ruben rolled his sleeves down. His bruises looked even worse against his dark skin. “Andy, I look like a convict.” He glanced over. “And you look like something convicts use to clean the john.” True enough. Andy’s black eye had hit that “oily rainbow” stage. Butterfly tape held an ugly tear on his forehead together up to where his hairline was matted with blood. His arm hair was gummy with tape and showed raw stripes where it had been ripped free. Andy nodded at them. “Good, huh? We turn up with war wounds; my stepfather has to answer a lot of questions.” He squeezed Ruben’s hand, then downshifted into second as he approached the valet stand.
