They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “It’s the best I could do on short notice. Besides,” I admitted, “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “About what, your murderous friend back there in the hearse?”

  “It was suicide,” I shouted.

  “Murder comes in different shades, Dylan. If you wanna call it suicide, go right ahead. There’s no one left to argue the point.”

  “Okay, Larry, let’s drop it. I just wanted you to ride with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, for all your goddamn faults, you’re my oldest friend.”

  I caught him smiling out of the corner of my eye.

  “I have faults?” he said.

  The car was silent again but for the sound of the wind. Larry didn’t even complain about the cold. Despite his protestations to the contrary, it meant a lot to Larry that I’d asked him to ride with me. I knew John would have approved. Friendship meant everything to Johnny MacClough.

  In the rearview mirror I watched the long line of headlights snake into the cemetery. Now John might finally rest in peace. I didn’t know that I was likely to, not for a while, anyway.