John’s smile hardened to a sneer. “Willoughby.”
“I figured the Krauts would shoot you first thing,” he said, then he turned to Jerry and let out a laugh. With a fat cigar pinched between two fingers, he pointed at Jerry’s scars. “My, oh my. They got you anyway. You look like Frankenstein.”
Jerry resisted the urge to snap the finger Ernie Willoughby was waving in his face. Didn’t seem fair since he was already missing three on his other hand. But he sure asked for it. There was a time when Jerry and John had been best friends with Ernie and his brother, Frank, but ever since the day on the ice when the frozen water beneath their skates had given way, a rift had hardened between them. While Jerry had buried his feelings of guilt over Frank as best he could, Ernie was reminded of it every time he looked at his damaged hand. It was on account of his hand that Ernie hadn’t gone to war, and from the looks of it, that had definitely been to his benefit. The past four years appeared to have been good tohim. He was dressed to the nines in a spotless black suit, his dark hair pasted smoothly back, the shine of money practically glowing off him.
Jerry took a moment, taking a deep drag of his cigarette then letting the smoke slip through his lips. “I see you made it through the war just fine,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I sure did.” Ernie’s dark eyes slid to Walter, who was studying his empty glass. “Just ask your cousin. Hey, Wally?”
Walter looked up at him but said nothing.
“What’s this?” John asked.
Ernie towered over them. “What, you didn’t tell the boys you work for me? Now, why not, I wonder.”
“For crying out loud,” John muttered under his breath, and Walter dropped his gaze to the tabletop.
“Beat it, Willoughby,” Charlie barked.
Willoughby held a hand behind one ear. “What’s that, Charlie? I can’t quite hear you.” Then he turned to Jerry. “Say, I got a new name for you. Jigsaw Jerry. How do you like that?”
John shot to his feet, and Willoughby drew back slightly, taken by surprise.
“You know how that happened to my brother, Witless?” John’s voice was a steel blade. Jerry could practically see it, like a bayonet twisting into Willoughby’s brain. “Nah. You wouldn’t, because you didn’t make it to France, did you? Didn’t make it out of this town.” He spat to the side. “Coward. You got the guts of a rabbit.”
Willoughby’s nostrils flared. “You’ll want to be careful what you say to me, Bailey. I run this town now.” He made a show of scanning the room. “I got guys who could kill every single one of you right now.”
“Is that so?” John asked. “For what?”
“For breathing my air,” Willoughby seethed.
“Makes sense that it’s your air. It stinks in here.”
The noise of the band might have covered their words, but the anger rising between the men was drawing attention. A trickle ofpatrons headed toward the door, casting uneasy glances at their table as they passed.
“John,” Walter said nervously, and Jerry saw what he had: the bulge of John’s pistol, tucked into the back of his trousers.
But John wasn’t backing down. John never backed down. “You gonna have other guys kill me for you? Can’t do it yourself? Sounds about right.”
Jerry stood and tossed some money on the table for the waiter. “That’s enough. Leave it, John. We didn’t lose Frank just to kill each other in a speakeasy.”
At the mention of his brother, Ernie’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to speak his name, Jigsaw. You don’t even get to think it. It’s your fault he’s gone.” He lifted his chin at Jerry’s face. “You got what was coming to you.”
John lunged at Willoughby again, but Walter held him back. “We saved you, didn’t we?” John growled. “What a goddamn mistake that was.”
“Let’s go,” Walter urged.
“Good idea,” Charlie said. “Lots of other places around here where Willoughby ain’t. All the way up the shore.”
John downed his drink and slammed the empty glass on the table, never taking his glare off Willoughby, who watched them as they left.
Suddenly, all Jerry wanted was to get outside, but as he stepped through the door, the night air didn’t clear his head like he needed it to do. Instead, the chill brought him back to that beautiful day thirteen years before, when four young boys had laced up their skates in the early spring sunshine, but only three had come home.
John gripped Jerry’s arm and pulled him aside. “I know what you’re thinking about. I see it on your face. Let it go, Jerry. It was an accident, and it was a long time ago. He drowned, and you couldn’t have done anything to save him. We all know that.”
But acid churned in Jerry’s stomach, along with a deep, inconsolable hurt. “Doesn’t matter whether it was an accident or not. Frank’s dead. Our parents are dead. Millions of people died in the war, then millionsmore from the flu. I know more people who are dead than living.” He flicked his cigarette to the ground and stamped it out. “SometimesIfeel more dead than alive. You heard Willoughby, and he ain’t all wrong. I look like Frankenstein, a monster created from the dead.”
John paled. “That ain’t true.”
