They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee (27 page)

Rather than heading directly to the cemetery, I circled the block so that MacClough could pass the basketball courts behind the church one final time. Some kids were playing half-court and couldn't be bothered to stop to contemplate mortality. Although I did not know him then, I could picture John as a kid, not stopping to look. He wouldn't've seen the value in it. Everybody was going to die someday.

Larry Feld just sat quietly, taking it all in. St. Mark's was, after all, on the border of our old neighborhood. He frowned as we passed back in front of the church. I don't suppose Larry ever understood my affection for anyone who wasn't Jewish. As a child raised to believe in a world that consisted only of victims and victimizers, Larry had a clear sense of which role Jews historically played. Sure, most of his clients were gentiles, but that just felt like payback to Larry. It gave him a sense of superiority, power. I think Larry saw my friendships and dealings with non Jews as vaguely treasonous. The truth was that Larry saw my affection for anyone else as tantamount to betrayal.

“It's freezing in here,” Larry moaned as we sped down the Belt Parkway with the T-Bird's windows wide open.

“Is it?”

“So, why'd you ask me to ride with you?”

“I wanted to thank you for your help,” I said.

“Frankly, Dylan, I would have preferred a nice bottle of Laurent-Perrier 1991. Riding in the lead car of a funeral procession for a guy I didn't particularly care for isn't my idea of thanks.”

“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.