Free Merrick by Ken Bruen

plain decrepit.
    I hailed a cab, headed for the hospital. Had gotten a call from Shona, Merrick had come
    out of surgery, was doing well and sitting up in bed.
    His cop buddies had wrangled him a private room. With the cost of Health care in The
    States, it was like getting the mini lottery. Required serious clout or juice as they’d say. I
    looked at the gifts id gotten him, thought……shabby, bit like The Square.
    I met his wife outside the room, she looked knackered. Dark circles under her eyes, like a
    Galway bad tide.
    She glanced at the bag in my hand, asked
    ‘For Steve?’
    Jesus, I’d never get used to his name. I said, going full Irish, which happens when I’m
    nervous,
    ‘Tis nothing, nothing at all.’
    She gave me a hug.
    Said
    ‘You are such a great friend.’
    File that under
    Delete.
    Merrick was sitting up in bed, IV tubes a riot. He looked tired and I hoped to fook, not
    beaten .I asked
    ‘How’s it going mate?’
    ‘Could be worse.’
    I handed over the bag, he took it, asked
    ‘Ryan, you going soft?’
    I defended
    ‘The book was something I had for years.’
    True, belonged to my mother in fact.
    I pulled up a chair, and he tore open the bag, spilling the contents on his bed. He picked
    up the collection of Yeats, checked it, said
    ‘Fuck, it’s a first edition.’’
    Then a large bottle of Sprite. He stared, asked
    ‘No grapes?’
    And held up the sprite, an incredulous gleam in his eyes, went
    ‘You brought me a fucking bottle of pop?’
    Pop, soda, back home, we call them minerals. Pop is for absent fathers.
    I said
    ‘You suspicious bollix, it’s not sprite.’
    He took the cap off, hope alight, smelled, went
    ‘Jameson?’
    I nodded, said
    ‘Mixed with the sprite, God forgive me for the desecration.’
    and blessed me own self.
    Then he surprised me ,the ultra cautious Merrick, took a slug, gasped
    ‘Oy veh, it is.’
    He offered it, I said
    ‘No, I have to go to a funeral.’
    I told him about Cloud Dancer, my voice trembled a little but I made it. Cleared my
    throat, asked
    ‘Do they, you know, Indians?, Have like your ordinary funeral?’
    He nearly smiled, said
    ‘I don’t know, there are no ordinary funerals, especially if you’re the guy being buried. I
    never had any Indian friends, mine…………they’re all Brooklyn cowboys.’
    Sensing my distress, that was the reason I guess we were friends, he changed tack
    completely, asked
    ‘Ryan, you have any heroes?’
    Then before I could respond, he looked at the Yeats, said
    ‘The Centre cannot hold.’
    Did he mean, The World Trade Centre?
    As an outsider, I knew not to mention it to New Yorkers unless they brought it up. But he
    was into his own hero, said
    ‘Back in 2003, a young kid, twenty, was drafted to the Majors. At 5.9, for football, he
    was small, but he won their respect with his raw courage and his fearless tackles. He was
    offered a new contract, by The Cardinals, 3.2 Million. Instead, he volunteered for Iraq.
    Not just the regular Army, The Rangers, the elite. Say, 400 go into the Ranger training
    course, all but maybe fifty wash out. He did his tour, came back and The NFL were
    alight. A bona fide hero, with movie star looks, he could have been the next Jimmy
    Caan.’
    He stopped, took a slug out of the sprite, said
    ‘You know Caan wasn’t really Italian.’
    I sighed, another icon bites the pseudo dust.
    He shook his head, physically re-grouping himself, continued
    ‘Sorry, I digress. The kid, he re-enlists. You fucking believe the balls on this guy? For
    Afghanistan! and his brother comes along too. He was killed a short time after. The team,
    in respect, retired his number, 40.
    He was done, silent. Was I expected to reciprocate? I had nothing. I don’t do heroes.
    Went with
    ‘Hell of a story.’
    Piss lame, I know.
    He said
    ‘There’s a kicker.’
    Ok, I waited.
    ‘A month after his funeral, The Goddamn Justice Department admitted………….he’d
    been