"I'll put it with the other stuff." I looked at the marine compass, brass fittings, patron photos, and clustered memorabilia.
"Maybe sell Jesus on EBay," he said,
"Sacrilegious seaweed." I rotated the pocketed Messiah.
Rob shrugged. Pretty soon, I knew, he would finish his coffee, drive to the bridge, and hang with Starz's dog for the night.
Whether Jesus' likeness was a miracle, or portal to the apocalypse, I do not know. Maybe "Sweet Jesus" was Dead Guy's last words as he slipped into the turgid drink. Maybe that is enough to save your soul. But somehow, I doubt it. Inflection probably plays a part. One thing I do know, if the cops are on your tail, and you are flying over a guardrail, it does not matter if you are Starz's Joker or Rob's Dead Guy; no one escapes judgment. Some are cursed on the silver screen; some end up with an ashtray for a shrine.
A few days later, Rob brought me Dead Guy's lug wrench. Then his cigarette lighter. He said someone left a pile of flowers under the bridge.