LITMIR.BIZ

      The first funeral home Stan visited was full of grief-stricken uniformed cops. In the second one, all the mourners spoke Spanish. The third happened to be located just a few blocks from Feeney's, a corner bar in Cranwood with one of the best jukeboxes around.

      It was early, and the place was nearly empty. He dropped a couple dollars’ worth of quarters on Merle Haggard and George Jones, then pulled up a stool and called for a Jim Beam on the rocks. He could only tolerate country music under certain circumstances, and this was one of them.

      Since joining the Wishbones, Stan had grown accustomed to drawing stares in public places. This time they came from an older gentleman a few stools down, a dapper, pickled-looking guy in a mustard-colored suit.

      “What happened?” he asked, eyeing Stan's tux with sympathetic curiosity. “She leave you at the altar?”

      Stan wanted to laugh, but the sound never quite made it out of his throat.

      “She should've,” he said, tossing back his drink in a single gulp. “It would've saved a shitload of time.”

      He pulled Up in front of Warneck's Funeral Home at a few minutes past nine. Except for a lone figure sitting on the front steps, the place looked empty, closed for the night.

      Squinting into the darkness, he recognized the guy on the steps as one of the old farts from Phil Hart's band. Walter, the piano player, the one he privately thought of as “Shaky.”

      He got out of the car and headed up the front walk. The old man watched him from the steps, a shock of white hair framing the vague outline of his face.

      “Hey,” said Stan. “Am I late?”

      “Depends for what.”

      “The wake.”

      “You missed it. Viewing hours are from six to eight.”

      “Were the Wishbones here?”

      The old man cleared his throat with a violence that made Stan cringe. “The who?”

      “The Wishbones. The band that plays after you at the showcase. I'm the drummer.”

      “You guys really call yourselves the Wishbones?”

      “Yeah.”

      Walter whistled through his teeth, as though a pretty girl had just walked by. “Where'd you find a stupid name like that?”

      Stan didn't answer. He'd always thought the Wishbones was a perfectly good name for a band. Walter reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. It was painful to watch him extract one and guide it to his lips. Stan had to look away when Walter brought out his lighter. He didn't turn back until he smelled the smoke.

      “Your friends left about an hour ago,” Walter reported.

      “Figures.” Stan shook his head. “I'm having one of those days, I'd forget my dick if it wasn't screwed on.”

      Walter coughed out a dry chuckle. “My age, I'd be grateful for a day like that.”

      A sudden image struck Stan like a wave of nausea. Susie drinking champagne in a fancy restaurant. Black dress, bare shoulders. Happy Birthday. He made a noise.

      “You okay?” Walter asked.

      “Not really. Mind if I sit down?”

      He felt a little better once he unhooked his cummerbund. He hated the frigging thing, the way it squeezed all the air out of him. Walter sat beside him, thoughtfully gumming his cigarette.

      “This must be a tough time for you,” Stan observed.

      “How so?”

      “You know.” He pulled the cummerbund out from under his jacket and laid it on the steps. “This thing with Phil. It must have been awful for you.”

      Walter worked his cigarette like a baby sucking a bottle. “Phil was an old man. Everybody's got to go sometime.”

      “Still, watching a friend die in front of you like that …”

      “We had our differences,” Walter said curtly.

      “What kind of differences?”

      “Creative.” Walter ejected the cigarette from between his lips. It landed on the sidewalk in a small shower of sparks. “I thought the band was starting to get a little stale.”

      “How long were you together?”

      “Too fucking long. Thirty-three years I took orders from that sonofabitch. I finally feel like I can breathe again.”

      Stan didn't bother to pretend he was shocked. He'd been a musician long enough to know how it could come to this. There were nights when he'd lain awake writing Artie's obituary in loving detail, nights when he'd imagined committing murder.

      “Can you do me a favor?” Walter asked.

      “What's that?”

      “Help me find my car.”

      “Whaddaya mean, find your car?”

      Walter gestured at the world spread out in front of them. His voice was small now, a little bit frightened.

      “It's around here somewhere,” he said.

      

       IT'S YOUR WEDDING

      “I think I'm going to ask Tammi to be my Maid of Honor,” Julie told him on their way to the mall on Saturday morning. “I'm just worried that Margaret's going to be upset.”

      “She'll still be in the wedding, right?”

      “Of course. But you know how she is. Any little thing could set her off. And the last thing we need is a disgruntled bridesmaid.”

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