Angel's Share by Jim Wright

   Remember, Ricky, when we were kids and used to throw stones off the bridge into the Susquehanna? The second the stone left your hand, you knew its whole future was set, how it would soar and splash and fall to the bottom of that river that seemed to flow on forever. I wish you were here right now. God, I do. 
     The Blue Haven is the way you remember. Cold and rainy as it is today, this bar’s as good a place as any to shelter from the weather. The neon sign in the window glows like blue ice.  I’m sitting at our regular table near the front. You know how I like to keep an eye on who comes through the door. I’m drinking my usual, Tenec’s Rye and water.  That first sip of the day is like the kiss of a princess, but now I have a spin in my head and my tongue is a little numb. Terry’s tending bar. You know how he brags about the baseball bat under the counter. In twenty years, we never seen or heard of him laying a hand on it, right? Especially today.  It’s slow, only a couple of old guys nursing their drinks ‘til they can go home to supper.
    When I first knew you were dead, I’m not kidding, it was like being dropped on the dark side of the moon. No air. No light. You wonder how a person’s heart can stand such pain. Since we were kids, Ricky, I always looked on you as a little brother, didn’t I? In a fight, you were very good with your hands. I was more the thinker, trying to use my brain to get us out of scrapes. When we grew up and chose the life, I swore that I would have your back. You know that.
Your funeral this morning was beautiful. Rosewood casket, buckets of flowers. The largest wreathe was mine. All our friends were there, showing you tremendous respect. Even Lorenzo showed up, if you can believe it. God bless your poor Claudia and the kids. They were wrecks but put on brave faces. What could I say to them? 
    The graveside service was a little rushed because of the wind and rain. As the priest droned on, I couldn’t take my eyes off the tarp covering the pile of dirt and your grave wide open like a mouth. I tried to slip away quiet at the end of the service, but Lorenzo cornered me, patted me on the back, shook my hand. After that, I needed to drop in here for a few drinks to restore my soul.
The word on the street is that your exit was a professional piece of work. And everybody knows that you were treated with respect. It was late at night, so no witnesses. The paper said that you were probably walking with someone in the park, someone you knew, under the streetlights along the river. That the shooter fell a half-step behind and pumped one quick round into the back of your neck. Like flicking off a light switch. The shot didn’t leave a mark on your face. They left your body along the main park road so that you would be quickly found and trucked to the morgue, before rats or weather could mess with you. And the shooter tucked a C-note in your hand to tell the world that you were somebody, a high-value target. 
    Ricky, I’ll probably never find out what you did to earn the bullet. But we both know how the hit would have come down. A call comes from a boss that you got to erase a guy and it has to be you because he’s your friend and trusts only you. If you say, “No, thanks, he’s a buddy,” well, you’re in the life and you know the rules. You get rubbed out for refusing the order and a second-string shooter takes out your friend instead and maybe botches the job. 
    People say the greatest gift you can give a friend is to take a bullet for him. They’re wrong. The greatest gift is to have the guts to put a bullet into your friend with mercy and dignity. Knowing that you will have to live on, tasting ashes…
   ​ But where are my manners? Here, I told Terry to pour you a shot of rye. I’m sorry for the rough weather you’re suffering out there today. I hope this nip warms your spirit. Take it, Ricky. Drink your fill, the angel’s share. 
And rest easy.

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