The Angels' Share

by James Markert

  “You’ll do time, McFee! You’ll pay for this!”

  William got in the car. Barley was wide eyed and slack jawed.

  William backed out of the lot. “Now his doors match.”

  FOURTEEN

  The potter’s field was inundated: blacks and whites, poor and well-to-do, and dozens in between, trampling the grass and leaning against the distillery houses. Men, women, and children walked to the grave and back to their cars, some crying, some chatting, others mute with emotion. A man rolled his wheelchair-bound wife over the bricked path to salvation.

  “They started arriving after lunch.” Samantha hurried from the front stoop to meet Barley and William as they exited the car. “They came in droves, Barley. I had control for a time, but now I don’t know what to do.”

  Annie reached out for William to take her. She was excited about so many people. “Look, William, a party!” She whispered in his ear, “I think they know Henry is coming home!”

  “Where’s Johnny?”

  “In the aging house with the Browders. Ronald said he’d die before he let anyone inside. He spent all day fixing it up.”

  “Hunt down Max then. I’m gonna need him.”

  Samantha wove her way through the throng while Barley hurried inside.

  William perused the crowd, looking for Polly. He spotted dozens of women, even a few redheads, but none were lookers like Polly.

  Annie hugged her hands around his neck and kissed his cheek. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  “Me too, Sugar Cakes.”

  Barley returned to the porch with a rifle in one hand and the Chopper in the other. He looked through the crowd. Samantha and Max emerged, hustling toward the porch. Barley tossed Max the rifle. “You ready?”

  “For what?” Max asked, his muscles bulging through a white cotton shirt.

  “Don’t know yet, but follow me.” Barley looked back at Max. “Don’t actually shoot anybody. Just stand there and look like you want to.”

  Barley entered the crowd. It parted as they noticed the automatic weapon. Barley let loose a barrage of shots into the air. A camera flashed. Across the circle, two rows deep, stood Bancroft. He must have followed them back to the distillery. Bancroft snapped another picture and stood on his toes for a better view.

  Barley fired a few more bullets into the sky for good measure. Max popped a shot from his own with the rifle, which drew a respectful nod from Barley.

  William stayed back with Annie, keeping her safe. A strange woman had already asked if she could touch Annie’s legs.

  When all was quiet, Barley spoke to the crowd. “I’d rather keep firing into the air, ladies and gentlemen, but if anyone gives me reason, I’m happy to introduce you to the Chopper.”

  Max spoke under his breath to Barley. “What’s this one called?”

  Barley, annoyed, hissed, “It’s just a rifle.”

  Max raised the rifle high in the air and shouted, “And I’ll introduce you to the Machete!”

  Barley gave Max a look that said, “Close your big head,” and then returned his focus to the crowd. “This is my home. Every last one of you is trespassing on my property. My business.”

  “You running the distillery again, Mr. McFee?” Mr. Bancroft yelled.

  “It sure appears so,” said a woman in the front.

  Whispers spread through the crowd. “Is it true? Is the town’s lifeblood returning?”

  “I want everybody to go back to your cars and scram. I can’t stop you from tenting in the woods, but I can and I will back you up out of my business.”

  Max pointed the rifle at the crowd and they instantly began to back up.

  A woman cried, “But you have no right to keep this to yourself.”

  “I’ve got every right, ma’am. Back up.”

  “Give us time to assess the situation,” William called out, still holding his sister in his arms. “We’ll decide when and how to allow visitation.”

  Bancroft snapped a picture. “Is that the girl?”

  The crowd surged in on them. William held Annie high, nearly on his shoulder. Barley fired into the air again and people froze. “As the boy said, we need time to assess.”

  William returned Annie to the porch, but not before a few more people swarmed to touch her legs. He pushed a bearded man away with his right arm and then elbowed another. Annie was crying for her mother.

  Someone shouted, “Is this a ploy to draw attention to the distillery?”

  A woman screamed, “No, it’s real! I felt it the moment I touched that cross.”

  “I did as well,” said another man. “The power of Christ is with us!”

  “It’s the Devil among you,” yelled Bancroft. “Not Christ!”

  Max fired into the air and shouted, “Disperse!” His voice was cavernous and deep, a rumble that sent fear into the crowd. He fired again. Barley followed with his Chopper. Slowly, the mob began to disperse, even Bancroft, who slunk away. Max herded them like sheep toward their cars, shouting, “Disperse!” every thirty seconds.

  St. Michael’s priest was in the crowd. Samantha had spotted him and beckoned him toward the porch. “Father Vincent! Over here.”

  The priest was wide eyed and bewildered, his face nearly as white as his hair. He made his way to the porch alongside Barley.

  “Stay for dinner, Father,” Barley said with benevolence. “I reckon we might need some saintly advice.”

  Father Vincent nodded, speechless, as he followed Samantha and Annie into the house.

  Now that Annie was safe inside, William chased down Bancroft near the tree line.

  Bancroft spoke first. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Got into a fight with another reporter.”

  “You’re not a good liar, William. And you have your father’s temper.” Bancroft watched the dispersing crowd. “A cheap way to bring attention to a broken distillery.”

  “We’ll be boiling mash soon enough.”

  “So it’s true?”

  “No comment.”

  Bancroft patted William’s shoulder. “Pick up a copy of the Post in the morning, you farce. You’ve had your moment. Distill your evil spirits and leave print to professionals.”

  “I want your camera. You took pictures on my property without permission.”

  “I had permission.”

  “From whom?”

  “From the Lord our Savior. From my knees, I prayed to Him. He delivered me here. To cast all blasphemers back to the Devil. To wrestle free what was briefly stolen by the wicked. My advice, son? Repent now, if you want a chance of redemption.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Bancroft got into his car; he shifted into gear. “Then you’d best get used to the heat.” Bancroft peeled away, churning gravel, and disappeared into the cluster of departing cars.

  They ate fried chicken, green beans, and potatoes mashed with butter; the McFees, the Browders, Max, and their least likely guest, Father Vincent. After two glasses of red wine he’d regained his rosy cheeks, though he’d yet to offer an opinion on what was happening in the field.

  William finished his green beans, wiped his mouth, and placed his napkin on his plate. Outside, dusk cast a red glow through the whiskey trees. Tents were set up for the night and campfires smelled of fall. “By the looks of it, they’re here to stay,” William said. “I say we let them in.”

  “But how do we patrol it?” said Mr. Browder. “They start rummaging through my corn, I’m coming with the Chopper and the Machete.”

  “I say we charge admission,” said Johnny.

  William said, “And bleed the already bleeding?”

  “It’s not some clip joint,” Barley said. “And they may be eager, but they’re not chumps.”

  “Bound to be a couple chumps.” Johnny swallowed some milk. “I’ll only fleece them.”

  A sudden pound on the table made the silverware jump. They all looked at Father Vincent, whose fist was shaking in midair. “This is not the time for playful bant
er! It’s not a carnival act. This is . . .” He closed his eyes, let out a loud exhale through his nose. When he opened them again he had gained the fatherly, even-keeled control he displayed during sermons. “As much as I wished otherwise, I truly believe what is happening here is real. I don’t know whether the Lord is acting through Asher Keating or he is, God save me, what people claim, but . . . but I walked to that grave and I felt something. I’ll be cursed to my grave for sitting here, but I truly felt something! Look at Annie!”

  Everyone did.

  “Something spiritual is happening. We can’t rightfully deny people. Belief in something . . . is a powerful thing. Especially now. Black clouds are raging across the plains.” He looked at Barley. “Crime lords and mob bosses are filling each other with holes.”

  Barley looked away.

  Samantha asked, “What do you propose we do, Father?”

  “I don’t know.” Father Vincent rubbed his hair, sighed. “Something controlled.”

  “Not Father out there with his Chopper,” said William. Or his hidden men in the woods. “What if the town spares a few coppers to help control the woods?”

  “Four patrolmen, one standing guard each direction,” said Carly decisively. “They can be armed, but people should not feel threatened. And to prevent chaos, let’s take everyone’s name and pull them from a hat. Allow them visits only during certain times of the day. They get five minutes at the grave to do what they need to do. Then they must go.”

  Max said to Johnny, “And you reckoned I married her on account of her prettiness.”

  Carly smiled bashfully. Mr. Browder put an arm around his daughter.

  Samantha said, “Fitting that it took a woman to find an answer. Father, I think the police would be more agreeable if you were to approach them.”

  “I’ll speak to them.” Father Vincent pushed his chair from the table and stood. “I thank you for the hospitality, but I must return to the church and rest. It’s been a day.”

  Everyone stood along with Father Vincent. The priest gently took William’s arm as the rest of the room cleared. “Just a word.” He kept his voice low. “The world is full of skeptics, and I admit I was one of them. Up until this morning.” He scratched his forehead wearily. “I didn’t believe your story in the Times. I was angered by it. And disappointed in you. That you would fall prey to such . . . such . . .”

  “What happened this morning, Father?”

  “I awoke with bruises and severe pain in both wrists and ankles. Throbbing pains, William. Stigmata—pain and bruises where Christ’s wounds were. Believe me or not, but the pain was real. It subsided after I visited that grave.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Call it a confession, if you will.” He looked around to make sure no one was listening. “I want you to write about it. Lord knows I don’t want the attention. But I’d feel more burdened should I conceal the truth. People need something to believe in, William. They will believe me because I am a priest.” He put his hands on William’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Something powerful is happening in Twisted Tree. As Saint Paul wrote in his letter to the Galatians: ‘I bear on my body the marks of Jesus.’”

  William couldn’t sleep. The glass of Old Forester he’d had while writing about Father Vincent’s transformation exhausted him, but after twenty minutes of tossing and turning he was again wide-awake. Bancroft would tell his version of the events, and William had every right to tell Father Vincent’s version.

  So why did he feel guilty?

  He swung his feet to the floor and clicked on his lamp. The sound reminded him of Bethany Finn hanging up on him. He’d try her again, but pestering could clam her up for good.

  William moved to his desk, sat in the chair, and stared at the page he’d typed out earlier. I bear on my body the marks of Jesus. He reread the article. The pacing was fast, and he’d done a thorough job detailing the facts while recreating the tension of the night. Would Barley paste him again? The damage had already been done—the people had already arrived.

  William moved to his closet, and a minute later he had boxes of old newspaper articles spread around him. After ten minutes of rooting through stories—THE BRITISH OCEAN LINER QUEEN MARY IS LAUNCHED; JOHN DILLINGER IS NAMED PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER ONE; HITLER AND MUSSOLINI MEET IN VIENNA—he located the story detailing Tommy the Bat’s escape from Eddyville prison. He knew he’d seen the picture of Borduchi before.

  That face had somehow given Henry nightmares. William suffered from them too, then they’d stopped right about the time Henry’s started.

  He buried his face in his hands. The article on his desk would be published at the expense of his family’s safety. Why had he written it? For selfish gain? Or because, as Father Vincent said, the people deserved to know?

  He dug back into the boxes and scoured his collection for information on Tommy “The Bat” Borduchi. All he learned was that Borduchi had a twin sister. And she was a Carmelite nun at the Sisters for the Aged and Infirm.

  William wrote down the pertinent information about Borduchi’s twin, and then a sudden convulsion of memories left an acidic taste in his mouth: A sharp blade cutting skin. Blood. A voice like a razor blade. “Left or the right, Boss?” William blinked away Tommy Borduchi’s face and the name Big Bang Tony came to him. Big Bang was Tommy’s right-hand man, arrested the same day. He was prescribed the electric cure after Borduchi grabbed life without parole.

  William pulled a story about the night Henry died, the night Barley collided with Preston Wildemere, and studied the picture he’d seen many times. Glass from smashed headlights and windshields littered the road. Two vehicles totaled. A torn fender coiled and resting like a python. Wildemere’s Studebaker crunched like an accordion. He was in the car but not visible in the photo. And neither was Barley. He’d been loaded into the ambulance by then. Out of view, his little brother lay in the grass. Dying.

  There was no evidence of any booze. William studied the wreckage, studied the road, studied the woods and the grainy black ink beneath the boughs, and there, in the darkness . . . Is that a man? William dropped the paper. Holy Moses.

  He scrambled to his desk, pulled out the middle drawer, and rummaged for his magnifying glass. He positioned the glass an inch from the page. It was a man for sure, his contour half concealed by darkness, blurry and unfocused under the trees, but tall, broad shouldered, heavily bearded. William leaned in: two lumps dangled against his chest. Henry’s shoes.

  William dropped the magnifying glass. He felt like he’d seen a ghost. His mind felt clear, though, and he knew he’d deliver Father Vincent’s story tomorrow before sunrise. He knew exactly why he’d written it.

  For Henry.

  It all came back to Henry.

  Henry waved his arms above his head. “Over here, Will’m.”

  William kicked the ball across the dewy grass.

  Henry trapped it with his right foot. Did a little shuffle before he kicked it back.

  William had to run five paces to his left to retrieve it. He picked the ball up and punted it like Henry liked, except the wet ball thudded off the side of his foot and went sideways.

  Henry couldn’t stop laughing as he chased it down.

  “See, Will’m. Told you.”

  William opened his eyes, whispered, “Told you we’d have fun.”

  His bedroom was dark, but his typewriter rested like a boulder on the desktop. Beyond it, on the seat of his chair, was the ball.

  Henry’s ball.

  William supposed he remembered putting it there before going to bed.

  FIFTEEN

  Bancroft was true to his word; his article in the Post described Asher Keating as blasphemous and insinuated that he was possessed by the Devil. It also claimed that he had Negro blood, offering as proof an outrageous categorization of his physical features. “Christ is white!” Bancroft wrote. “Not a man blackened by the inferior race.”

  It was ludicrous. Luckily, the only picture the
y included was one of Max firing his weapon into the sky. Barley had his back to the camera. A caption beneath gave Barley’s name, so Dooly McDowell was still in the clear.

  Bancroft’s article attracted protestors, and they gathered on the south side of the whiskey trees bordering Mr. Browder’s cornfields early in the morning. William had seen them arriving when he returned from dropping off his article. Their numbers had grown to nearly four dozen by midday, all picketing against a palette of crisp fall leaves with signs of SACRILEGE and BLASPHEMY. Bancroft was the most boisterous, his face bright red and strained as he pumped his BLASPHEMER sign in cadence with his chant: “Christ was white! Christ was white! Christ was white!”

  William had the remnants of Asher’s bindle. He pulled out the picture of Asher, a black-and-white image. The scraggly beard dated it from after he’d returned from the war. He studied the skin around the beard and neckline and around the eyes. Asher’s hair was long, covering his ears, but the hair of his beard was darker, coarser . . . Was he black, in part?

  Asher’s skin appeared more jaundiced to William than anything else, which made no sense given it was a black-and-white picture. Some called Asians yellow-skinned. Asher’s cheekbones were wide, his face flat like his nose. His eyes could be described as lacking the typical crease of most Europeans. What exactly was Asher Keating? Does it matter?

  Bancroft’s chant carried across the distillery. “Christ was white!”

  To many the bigotry would matter.

  When William returned outside, Barley was on the porch. “Next time you write the truth, William, you have to reveal the bruises too. Or he will.” Barley nodded toward Bancroft. “The drugs. You have to mention it.”

  William nodded, moved on. Barley was right. As Father Vincent said, the people deserved to know the truth, all of it.

  The crowd in the whiskey trees, drawn by his stigmata article, numbered in the hundreds, closing in on a thousand. It appeared that a line of tension was developing between the believers in the whiskey trees and the protestors set up next to the cornfield. One of the police officers stood between the two groups, keeping them separate.