Absent Friends

Yeah, says Markie, Jimmy, man, you don't hang out no more. Markie's using Jack's growly voice, has his jaw stuck out the way Jack's gets. All's you do anymore, man, Markie says, still being Jack, you sit in front of the firehouse with that old fart McCardle, like the two of you, you're in charge of looking at stuff.

Jimmy flips his empty beer can into the air, swats it over so Markie has to duck.

Oh, man, says Markie, you're lucky the girls took the potato salad inside.

What, you're telling me you'd start a food fight? In your own backyard?

You started it already! Anyway, it's not my backyard, it's old man O'Neill's.

Marian comes out onto the porch right then, asks if Jimmy's ready to go. Markie says, Marian, you just did a really good thing, you just saved Jimmy's ass.

From what? Marian says, looking around to the back of Jimmy, like she needs to see what's wrong with his ass.

Potato salad, says Markie, nodding darkly, like that's his most serious weapon.

Oh my God, says Marian, her eyes getting wide.

Yeah, says Jimmy, I'm getting scared, we better go.

Markie walks with Jimmy and Marian up the driveway to the front of the house. When they get to the sidewalk, Markie says, Jimmy, man, that stuff we were talking about? Maybe I could do it.

Jimmy looks at him. Maybe, he says.

Yeah, why not?

Jimmy nods. Just, you have to not say you got it from me. Because he'd blow it off then.

Got you.

What are you guys talking about? Marian wants to know.

Boy talk. I ask you what you and Sally were cracking up about in the kitchen? Jimmy kisses Marian on the nose.

No, but if you had, I'd have told you.

That's because you're nicer than me.

Marian smacks him on the arm, lightly.

Markie says, Jimmy, you're in trouble now.

Yeah, says Jimmy, but I know a way out. He wraps his arms around Marian, presses her close, kisses her in a way he doesn't usually do out on the street. Finally he moves his face an inch away from hers, asks, Am I still in trouble?

You sure are, says Marian, but now it's a completely different kind.

PHIL'S STORY

Chapter 11

Abraham Lincoln and the Pig

October 31, 2001

Four tables bodyguarded by two chairs each lounged on the sidewalk outside the Bird. Phil thought, Nice day to sit outside. Too bad Kevin probably wouldn't see it that way. He pushed through the door and sure enough spotted Kevin in the far corner booth, the one most shadowed.

The Bird, Phil saw, was his kind of saloon. Atmosphere-free. No concession at all to Halloween, not a ghost or goblin. Scratched tables, mismatched chairs, neon beer signs. Though the five-foot flag above the bar, he'd give odds that was new. A scattering of solitary drinkers drifted foggily through the afternoon, staring at nothing, lost in private reasons. On the walls, photos of Little League teams down the years. Phil wondered, as he made his way to the back, which of those smiling uniformed boys was Jimmy McCaffery, which was Eddie Spano, which was Jack Molloy. Which was Markie. Boys with their teammates, shoulder to shoulder, squinting and smiling into the bright future. Two dead at twenty-three, one dead last month. The one still living, a career criminal. Ah, youth.

“Your team photos here?” he asked as he slid into the booth opposite Kevin.

“What?” Kevin sat off-kilter, favoring his right leg. His crutches leaned in the corner.

“Didn't the Bird sponsor your Little League team?”

Kevin said, “What are you asking that for?” but he pointed across the room. “Those.”

Phil turned to look, saw Kevin as he'd been at nine, at ten, at twelve.

The boy he'd never disappointed.

“Uncle Phil—”

The waitress materialized, hovered beside them. Her bleached-blond presence felt like a reprieve. Phil wanted her to stay. But after she'd run down the list of beer on tap and in bottles, what was there to keep her there? He supposed he could ask about scotches, gins, five-star brandies, but he'd always despised opponents whose delaying tactics were that obvious, that desperate. You're not prepared, don't show up. He asked for a Guinness and watched her leave to get it. Kevin was already working on a bottle of Bud.

“Uncle Phil—” Kevin said again, but Phil raised his hand.

“Kev, listen.”

Kevin stopped, did as Phil said. All right, now you have to tell him something. In a minute. When the beer comes. No, now, before he starts again. “I don't know what's going on, okay?” The look Kevin gave him, it wasn't okay. “I don't know what happened to that reporter, if he killed himself or someone killed him. But—no, wait—but there are a couple things I never told you, or your mother. I'll tell you now if you want.”

Kevin nodded.

Jump, Phil told himself. The net will appear. Or it won't. Looking into Kevin's eyes, so like Sally's, he said, “I met with Jimmy McCaffery every couple of months for eighteen years. Sometimes in a bar like this, sometimes in my office. Once at one of your games. The Tornados, a play-off game. You tripled. Do you remember?”