MYVISIONHAD ADJUSTEDAND ICOULDSEEA SHINERUNDER HISRIGHTEYE His face lit when he heard Birdie’s name. “They were on fire, man,” I said. “Especially Birdie. She hustled this old buzzard for everything but his socks.” He and Birdie were an item for a while, until the weeklong disappearances, strange houseguests, and shakedowns by the police got to her. She told him that she didn’t want to be the Bonnie to his Clyde, and left him.After that, he came apart, became even more reckless, if that’s humanly possible. “What color was that Knuckle?” he said, flicking his head at the TV, so as not to seem affected. “Venetian-blue and Croydon-cream? Or the teak red and black?” “More like mold and rust.” He pulled a pair of leather work gloves from a slit in his denim jacket and flapped them against his hand.Whether driving or riding, that’s what he wore. “We need the whole crew on this one. I’m feeling social. If you don’t mind, maybe you could ask your girl to bring Birdie again.” By now my vision had adjusted and I could see a shiner under his right eye. He hadn’t come around in months, since that incident with the boss from Miami, name of Ron Swinton, who didn’t take kindly to Rooster using the organization’s network to move his own stream of chopped Porsches and Benzes. The more I studied my friend, the more jumpy, underfed, and barely slept he looked. But still just as dangerous as ever. I noticed his rattlesnake skin belt buckle was missing, the one I wouldn’t stop harassing him about, joking that he should leave it to me after he dies in a high speed chase.