“How did you get into guns?” he asks after eating our steaks on the patio.
We share Blue Moons and sit across from each other on Polywood outdoor chairs around a matching table.
“My father had a lot of guns. I was infatuated with them as a young boy. My interests grew in writing and with guns. I decided to mix the two after college.”
“You’re amazing,” he replies and toasts me. “Not many men can pull that off.”
“I wasn’t fighting terrorists in the Middle East. That’s amazing and heroic. Writing about guns isn’t.”
“You’re going to make my head swell, Islip.”
I joke, “Who says I was talking about you?”
He finds a stuffed outdoor pillow on one of the spare chairs to his left and tosses it at me.
I catch it in mid-air, laugh, and suggest, “Let’s try the whisky out for size. What do you
