Yellow Coat

 "Na, I don't smoke."

"Good. More for me then," he sniggers, while rolling his tobacco, "Pissing like a horse out there tonight. God damn hat is soaked right through," he pulls a stool out from under the bar and sits on it, "So, what ya doing around here anyway, old man? There are kinder towns to get old in."
"I'm just passing through," the old man says, "heading south for the sun," he looks to the barman, nods and gestures with his left hand, and the barman gets his glass refilled.

The young man had already had a good look at the old man. He'd noticed the old, leather coat that used to be yellow before the weather beat it. Takes a lot of wearing and weather to get a coat so dark and smooth - must love that coat. He also saw the gun by the old man's side, and a bandage on his shooting hand. The young man gets his beer and stretches his back, "Is that a Texas Paterson you've got there? 2.12 pounds?" he asks.
"Nope," replies the old man, "It's a Texas Paterson, and about 3 pounds when loaded," the old man looks at his book on the bar next to his hat, "You know how to read, boy?"
"A little."
"So you know all about guns, but you can't read?" the old man shakes his head grinning, "That's what's wrong with this fucking world these days. Ain't no difference between the mud and the air anymore."
"Didn't say I can't read, just not so well."
"Yeah that's true, you didn't. How old are you, boy?" asks the old man.
"Almost twenty. A wife and two perfect daughters. And how old are you? Too old to be sitting in these dives, that's for sure."
"Nothing's perfect, son. The only way anything can be, is if it isn't present," he grins into his glass, "In German, the word presence is female."
"You're drunk, old man," smirks the young man.
The man with the yellow coat takes a drink then puts his glass down carefully with his bandaged hand, "Hope so," he says, "or that was a waste of good money," the old man gets to his feet slowly, picks his hat up and flicks the rim, "Ah, bone dry, if only for a minute," he says to himself smiling, "I'd better be off, son. Especially as I'm drunk, but not only drunk, old too. Never did catch your name, young man."
"My name's Peter, but most people call me Pete."
"Ok, Peter," he puts his hat on, "Was nice talking with ya."
"Wait!" shouts Pete, "You forgot your book."
The old man turns back to face Pete, "I've read that book more than thirty times, Peter," he sighs, almost looks lost for a second, "Men like me shouldn't get too attached to things, but what are we without it?" the old man pauses for a second, busy with his thoughts, "Na, you keep it, Peter, and read the damn thing. It's beautiful."
Pete picks up the book, "Ok, I will. Thanks, old man. You take care now," Pete sucks some air in to ask the old man's name, but when he looks up the man is already gone.

There's a gun shot in the street. Pete's whole body jumped at the loud crack. He puts his wet hat on, runs outside and there's someone laying at the side of the road. As Pete approaches the body he notices it's a young man, and feels some kind of relief. He sees the man was shot in the head, "Fucking Jesus," he exclaims, "Right between his eyes. Almost perfect."
By now the barman and a couple of other people had gathered around.
"Why shoot at the head, though?" asks the barman, "and where's the man's coat? Nobody wears a hat without a coat in this weather."
Pete looks around the street. He thinks he can see an off-yellow coat on the ground towards the corner. He thinks about walking that way, but decides to go home and read.