“The guy in the gray shirt and the Yankees hat. The guy that showed me the China Pit from my Viet Cong Lookout. That guy was you.”
“There’s a picture in it. You and two other guys standing in front of a place called The Viet Cong Lookout. A bar, I think.”
“Yeah, a bar,” Johnny agreed. He flexed his hand uneasily on the shaft of the hammer, barely feeling the sting run across his scraped knuckles. “The tall guy in that picture’s David Halberstam. Very famous writer. Historian. Baseball fan.”
“I was more interested in the ordinary-sized guy in the middle,” David said, and all at once a part of Johnny—a deep, deep part—knew what the child was driving at, what the child was going to say, and that part moaned in protest. “The guy in the gray shirt and the Yankees hat. The guy that showed me the China Pit from my Viet Cong Lookout. That guy was you.”
