They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee Read Free Page A

Now they were the only two left from their generation.
    â€œWhadya think of L.A.?” MacClough asked, squeezing my hand.
    â€œI think Los Angelenos are lucky God feels bad about Sodom and Gomorrah.”
    â€œTerrible, huh?”
    â€œWorse.”
    The preliminaries out of the way, we hugged. Our embrace saddened me more than I could say. Never once had my dad and I held each other in such an unselfconscious way. Surely now, we never would.
    â€œGive me a ride back to Sound Hill?” I wondered.
    â€œFor a fee, my boy.”
    â€œI think I’ve got a spare quarter, you shanty Irish prick.”
    â€œYeah, I missed you too, ya heathen Jew.”
    Jeffrey came away from one of the limousines and walked over to us. We hugged out of habit. Jeff’s awkward embrace was not unlike my dad’s.
    â€œWe need to talk,” he said, taking a step back.
    MacClough turned to go: “Meet you by my car.”
    â€œStay,” Jeffrey fairly commanded.
    â€œI’ll pass,” Johnny kept going.
    â€œNo, please,” Jeffrey insisted. “I want you to hear this.”
    To say that MacClough and my oldest brother were enemies would be an overstatement, but not much of one. Cops, even retired ones like Johnny, tend to develop a reflexive distaste for lawyers of Jeffrey’s ilk. And Jeffrey’s affection for the MacCloughs of this world was tepid at best.
    â€œWhat is it, Jeff?”
    â€œZak’s missing,” he answered.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “Par for the course.”
    Jeffrey shoved me. “You really are such an asshole, Dylan. Isn’t it bad enough that he looks like you? Why does he have to put his parents through the same shit you pulled on Mom and Dad?”
    There he was displaying the anger I was telling you about. But when I tried to display a little of my own, vice like fingers held back my left fist. John might have been weathering badly of late, but there wasn’t a thing wrong with his grip.
    â€œWhat do you mean he’s missing?” MacClough asked, putting himself between Jeffrey and me.
    â€œLet go of my arm!”
    He didn’t. “Shut up and let your brother talk.”
    Jeffrey opened his mouth to speak and stopped when he noticed the three of us had attracted a wee bit too much attention. Even Rabbi Rocketmouth let himself be distracted. MacClough let go of me and we all just stood there smiling like a trio of fools. When everyone realized there would be nothing more to see, they let us out of their sights.
    â€œDo you still own that bar?” Jeffrey asked MacClough.
    â€œThe last I looked, yeah.”
    â€œWhat time do you close tonight?”
    â€œDon’t worry about when I close,” Johnny said. “I’ll see that it’s slow when we need it to be.”
    â€œThank you.” Jeffrey about-faced.
    â€œDon’t forget your investigator’s file,” I called after him.
    â€œHow’d you know—” he started.
    â€œI know you, Jeff. That’s all I need to know. You would never come to me first.”
    He walked on. He was scared. And now, so was I.

Three Legs
    Sound Hill is an old whaling village out toward the end of Long Island, some eighty miles east of the New York City line. George Washington never slept here, but he built us a clapboard lighthouse. It’s got a bronze plaque on it and everything. We’ve got local Indians. We’ve got potato farms, sod farms, vineyards, and wineries. We’ve got several Victorian mansions, some shotgun shacks, but no high ranches. That pretty much sets us apart from the rest of Long Island. Sound Hill—The Last Bastion of High Ranch-lessness West of the Atlantic. But what we were proudest of was our lack of a golf course. That was us.
    The Rusty Scupper, on Dugan Street off the marina, had been the only bar in town for a hundred years when MacClough bought it. He had owned it for two years when I moved my office from the