“Hey,” El Paso announced, “we’ve got some latecomers. Hey, L-T, Egan, over here. Hey L-T, guess what? We got us a psychologist. Now we got us just about everything.”
“Yous guys still drinking?” the lieutenant asked. Jax handed the lieutenant a beer. “Say hey, Little Bro,” Brooks grasped Jax’ hand in a soul handclasp. “We’re movin out at oh-four hundred.”
“That aint nothin, L-T,” Whiteboy said raising his head about three inches off the table. “We sh’till got fo hours ta party.”
Egan did not sit immediately at the center table. He went to the bar and bought a case of beer. Ridgefield was there joking quietly now with his closest friends, Snell, Nahele and McQueen. Egan nodded to them. Ridgefield nodded back with detached respect. They were the informal leaders of their respective platoon
