The Angels' Share

by James Markert

  The Angels’ Share

  © 2017 by James Markert

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Author is represented by Writers House LLC.

  Interior design: Mallory Collins

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Markert, James, 1974- author.

  Title: The angels’ share / James Markert.

  Description: Nashville, Tennessee: Thomas Nelson, [2017]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016028403 | ISBN 9780718090227 (softcover)

  Epub Edition December 2016 ISBN 9780718090234

  Subjects: LCSH: City and town life--Fiction. | Family secrets--Fiction. | GSAFD: Christian fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.A75379 A85 2017 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016028403

  Printed in the United States of America

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  I’ve witnessed two miracles in my life.

  Their names are Ryan and Molly.

  They bless my life daily.

  This one is for both of you.

  Angels’ share: the quantity of whiskey lost

  to evaporation during the aging process

  CONTENTS

  Before

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  After

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  BEFORE

  The house was quiet, even the baby, who’d been crying all evening from teething. His father was on the road and not due back until the weekend. So what were those noises out the window? Hushed voices? He knelt on his bed and eased the drapes apart enough to see his father’s fedora below; he was dragging another man across the driveway. Six men walked alongside him. One man led them all: a giant dressed in white, using a baseball bat like a cane.

  The man with the bat looked up and the boy quickly closed the drapes. He slid under the covers and squeezed his eyes shut, and he stayed that way until he had to pee. By that time the voices were gone, along with the footsteps. He snuck another look outside. It was only a dream.

  But he still had to pee. So he crept downstairs to the bathroom. The garage was visible out the kitchen window. A light was on out there, with shadows moving inside the glow. His mother had left her slippers beside the kitchen table. The boy slid them on his bare feet and opened the back door to a warm summer night. He walked across the short sidewalk to the garage and climbed on a cinder block to get a look inside.

  He hadn’t been dreaming after all.

  His father was home early, and he’d brought friends with him. One was missing fingers on his left hand. Another was lying in a pool of blood. The man in white had scars on his cheeks. He lifted his baseball bat over his right shoulder and brought it down against the back of the man lying on the floor.

  The boy flinched; the man moaned but barely moved. The man in white took another vicious swing that left the child crying. Why didn’t his father stop him? Why didn’t any of the men stop him?

  And now the man on the floor wasn’t moving at all.

  A bald man as tall as a streetlamp held a sharp knife. The man in white called him Big Bang Tony. “Left or the right, Boss?”

  The man in white pointed to his left cheek. Big Bang Tony cut him real slow and careful across the cheekbone, an inch-long gash. That’s when the boy lost his bladder and the pain started: a pain in his rib cage, a pain that pulsed like a heartbeat . . .

  ONE

  OCTOBER 1934

  The pews at St. Michael were made of solid walnut, and even the smallest sound bounced off the nave’s rib-vaulted ceiling. William McFee, the oldest son of Barley and Samantha, had once dropped a coin during the first gospel and all eyes flashed toward him. But nothing had ever echoed as loudly as Barley’s Colt .45 did, just as Father Vincent was consecrating the altar bread. Barley would claim it was the first time he brought a gun to church, but William knew better.

  Sunlight hit the stained glass window and cast a prism across the altar. The church smelled of incense, candle wax, and perfume, and the combination made William drowsy. He didn’t understand Latin; he stood when he was supposed to stand, knelt when he was supposed to kneel. Mr. Craven was nodding off near the middle pews.

  William envied him; he hadn’t slept last night. He’d been thinking about the last words he’d said to his youngest brother. William wanted to write an article, not kick a ball around the yard. He’d told Henry no, not once but five times, until he finally said what he’d said and Henry left the room crying.

  He could never take it back, and that’s what bothered him the most on this day, the one-year anniversary.

  He allowed himself to remember Henry dancing, wearing out the floorboards. He sure could dance: a prodigy, they’d called him. William once believed the talent was God given. But now he wondered if it was only a cruel trick. A four-year loan God snatched in an instant of crushed glass and twisted metal. This was the real reason William let his mind wander, not the Latin—it was his way of turning his back on God. He wasn’t going to put in the extra effort anymore.

  Typically, the McFees had a pew to themselves in the back—Barley didn’t like anyone sitting behind him. He had grown quiet since the accident, and more paranoid. Most everyone in the small town of Twisted Tree, Kentucky, avoided him now. “Lucky to be alive,” they said in whispers. “Too bad about his little boy. Maybe he’ll finally reopen the distillery, you know, to cope.” Barley had banged up his leg in the accident, but his real wounds were the kind nobody could see, which was why he was often drunk by lunchtime.

  “Some bruises take longer to surface,” William had explained to his brother Johnny about their father, “and some are so
deep they never come up.”

  Johnny, at fifteen, had already locked lips with dozens of girls while William was still searching for that first kiss. Behind the acne bumps, floppy hair, and shy smile was a boy eager to bloom. He resembled his mother, whom everyone in town considered pretty, with her soft features and wavy hair the color of wheat, but William wasn’t so sure he wanted to look like his mother. He wanted that hardened, gruff look Johnny had gotten from Barley. That and an ounce of Johnny’s confidence, know-how, and instincts with the babes.

  But it was William, though, who’d noticed that their parents no longer held hands in church. Samantha put one of the kids in between them as a buffer, usually six-year-old Annie, the youngest now that Henry was gone. Annie had rickets, which had left her bowlegged.

  William glanced at his mother. She was making eye contact with Mr. Bancroft—he of the slick black mustache three pews up and across the aisle. Then Johnny leaned over and whispered in William’s ear just as Annie pointed, her quiet way of asking their father to lower the kneeler.

  Father Vincent started to consecrate the wine.

  Barley bent down to help his daughter, and the latch on his leather shoulder holster came loose. The Colt .45 clunked against the walnut pew and discharged a bullet. Father Vincent jumped and the congregation ducked—especially the war veterans, half of whom were likely praying for food. But it was Mrs. Calloway (whose husband dodged the Great War by claiming a bogus heart defect) who darn near caught a slug in the eye. She hit the floor as Samantha McFee screamed, “Oh my goodness, Barley!” at the top of her lungs.

  William was stifling laughter when the gun went off. The joke Johnny had whispered in his ear seconds before—“A man who trouser coughs in church sits in his own pew”—was typical Johnny: ill timed and jingle brained.

  The bullet punched a hole in the stained glass window on the south side of the church and then burrowed its way into the door of Mr. Bancroft’s blue Model T parked outside.

  Had his father also spotted his mother and the Post reporter making eye contact? Was that why the bullet lodged in that particular car door? Was it truly an accident?

  The entire church was looking at them. William wiped his brow: the sweats had come, and now a nerve attack was inevitable. Like a shell-shocked veteran, he felt his hands tremble and his breath grow short. He felt smothered, dizzy, and light-headed. Not now!

  Barley made no attempt to hide his gun. He sniffed the barrel before he slid it back into the shoulder harness. Then he went down on the kneeler beside his crippled daughter, closed his eyes, and prayed as the congregation split time watching him and the window’s glass splinter.

  “We’d better go, Barley,” Samantha whispered.

  William agreed. He could feel the glares as much as see them, and he was so chilled with sweat that he felt detached from himself, like he was watching from the ceiling beams. While he was up there he noticed Mr. Bancroft hurrying outside to check on his car.

  But Barley was deep in prayer, his elbows resting on the pew in front of him, praying, William assumed, for the death of Preston Wildemere, who was doing a banker’s bit for vehicular manslaughter. It was the reason their father went to church—to pray for another man’s death. Or at least a longer sentence.

  Eventually his father stood from the kneeler.

  Mrs. Calloway—who had to be wearing five pounds of oyster fruit around her neck—was still on the floor, and people were gathering around to make sure she was breathing.

  Barley felt it was a good time to approach Father Vincent at the altar for Communion. The wispy-haired priest eyed him with caution as he approached.

  Luckily William’s attack hadn’t lasted long. He followed his father, not completely trusting what he was about to do. Barley never went for Communion; today he stopped before the altar and opened his mouth.

  “Father,” William hissed, “he’s not even to that part yet. What are you doing?”

  Barley stood with his mouth open, waiting for Father Vincent to slide a wafer in, which he did after a moment of contemplation.

  “Corpus Christi,” Father Vincent said—clearly he wanted the McFees to leave.

  William wiped his forehead. Is it really the body of Christ? By the queer look in Father Vincent’s eyes, the priest was thinking the same thing. Barley had fired in the middle of things, bringing a halt to the entire process.

  Barley chewed, and instead of the appropriate response of Amen, he said, “Thanks.”

  Thanks? William wanted to sink into the marble steps but instead followed his father down the central aisle. Barley’s black-and-white wing tips clicked as he walked. Samantha had already gathered Annie and Johnny near the baptismal font. She slid her fingers into the holy water and motioned the sign of the cross. Barley nodded toward the now-sitting Mrs. Calloway.

  William followed his family out into the sunlight, where Barley removed a deck of Lucky Strikes from his coat. Samantha scoffed at this habit, picked up in Europe. In front of the kids she called them “coffin nails,” but in secret she smoked them too. William could smell it on her clothes. She’d begun to dress differently of late too, trading in ankle-length dresses for those that showed her knees.

  Across the lot Mr. Bancroft knelt beside his car, next to the new bullet hole in the driver’s side door. He was pale behind the whiskers and praying, hands folded in a perfect triangle. “Cast the Devil out of Twisted Tree,” he shouted when he saw Barley. “Cast him out before the End of Days takes us all, good Lord!”

  Barley looked at William. “Can you drive? You’re sweating like a horse.”

  William wiped his face. “I can drive.”

  It wasn’t as new as Mr. Bancroft’s, but the McFees had their own Model T. William was the primary driver—Barley had yet to sit behind the wheel since the accident. William started the car as Samantha, Annie, and Johnny crammed themselves into the back. It choked and throttled and spat gray smoke toward the church steps.

  Before pulling out William looked over his shoulder to make sure Annie was secure beside their mother, which she was. Samantha was staring across the parking lot at Mr. Bancroft. Her concern gave William the same feeling in his gut he’d had when he’d seen his mother walking with him outside Murphy’s Café back in June. And then again when he’d seen them laughing together outside the schoolhouse in August.

  William didn’t trust the man. He didn’t think Bancroft was even Catholic. When he spoke about Christ, he sounded like one of those new Christian fundamentalists. Bancroft had only been attending St. Michael for a few months, and William was convinced it was only to see Samantha.

  Barley was oblivious to it all—unless the bullet had been intended for that car door.

  William slipped the car into gear with unnecessary force, and the Model T lurched toward the winding road flanked by trees turning colors. Barley cracked his window an inch so the smoke from his cigarette filtered out. He squinted as he took a drag. Other than the squeaking of Annie’s leg braces, the car was silent.

  Before the tragedy their car rides had been anything but silent. Henry liked to dance even in the car. Samantha would join in, clapping, and then Annie would break into made-up song. Back when Barley used to drive with a smile on his face and laughter in his eyes. It would last until Johnny’d pinch Henry or pull his ear, and then the fighting would ensue.

  William missed the car noise. He missed the noise around the house too: the dinner table conversations, the day-to-day interaction, Annie chasing Henry in and out of every room until Barley threatened to tan their hides. Although he never would. Not those two. Now it was quiet enough to hear the floorboards creak, and Annie had no one who was willing to be chased.

  William noticed his knuckles bone-white on the steering wheel, so he relaxed his grip. Maybe Henry had been the catalyst. The plug that kept the air in their balloon. Ever since they’d buried him, the air had been leaking and the family now moved in slow motion, the car rides palpably tense instead of proudly cherished.


  Samantha once told him that time healed all wounds, but he could tell even she didn’t believe it.

  A mile south of the church and a stone’s throw from where a Hooverville of shanties and lean-tos had sprung up on the outskirts of the woods, William pulled the car into the gravel lot of Charlie Pipes’s Gas & Taff corner store. Across the street dozens of vagrants warmed their hands over garbage-can fires. Barley called them bums.

  “What’s a bum?” Annie asked.

  “Street clutter,” Barley said. He’d already inhaled the cigarette down to a nub. “What are you doing?”

  “We need gas,” William said. They both knew gas wasn’t the reason for his stop. Next to the front door, the newspaper rack was full of dailies. William felt the pull toward the fresh print.

  “We’re still a quarter wedge to empty.” Barley patted the dashboard. “We can make it to Wednesday. Tuesday, at least.”

  Says the one who never leaves the house anymore. Their bourbon distillery had been shut for fourteen years. Barley had no job, and he did very little other than sit in his chair sipping booze. Yet they somehow had enough money to put food on the table.

  William pointed to the sign above the pump: TEN CENTS A GALLON. “It’s cheaper than I’ve seen it since summer.” He stepped out of the car and closed the door so he couldn’t hear Barley rambling.

  Annie yelled from the backseat, “Get me a piece of taffy, William.”

  Barley rolled down the window another couple of inches. “No taffy, William.” He lowered his voice and handed William a ten-dollar bill. “Don’t need her with wobbly legs and rotten teeth. Get yourself a paper. I know that’s why you stopped.”

  He took the bill from his father.

  Barley nodded toward the storefront. A man slept in a bundle of rags next to Gas and Taff’s front door. “Don’t give that bum any money. He’ll spend it on booze.”

  William knew his father would be three sheets to the wind by dinnertime and four sheets not long after that, passed out in his chair instead of on the sidewalk. The drunk with money and the drunk without.