Sharpshooter by Chris Lynch Read Free Book Online Page A

I must mean it.
    Then I see. He is wearing three scapulars.
    â€œWhat’s this all about?” I ask, reaching and fingering the Jesus Three.
    â€œBeck and Morris decided these would make me a little more invincible,” he says somberly.
    â€œWell,” I say, shrugging, “couldn’t hurt, right?”
    â€œAre you gonna give me yours now?” he asks.
    â€œNo, dodo, I’m not gonna give you mine. This was from my own mother , ya barbarian. How could I give that away? Anyhow, you got three Jesuses looking after you already. Just like you got the three of us looking after you already. Beck will be up in the sky, Morris will be floating off the coast, and I will be right there in the hills and jungles keeping an eye peeled for you every second. Anybody trying to shoot at you gets shot by me.”
    He pauses for thought. It’s quick.
    â€œI’ve been thinking about Canada a lot lately, Ivan.”
    My pause is even shorter. “Try and go to Canada and I’ll shoot ya myself.”
    â€œAt least that’ll be quicker,” he says.
    I shake my head, knowing he would never run. I don’t believe he would ever do that to his country. Or to Canada.
    But even more, I know he wouldn’t do it to me.
    I check my watch. “I gotta go, man,” I say, pulling him by his collar. “Come on and walk me to the station. I’ll give you a big kiss good-bye for luck.”
    â€œReally?”
    We walk, but I look back at him at the same time. His voice was alarmingly upbeat with that Really? so I try and read more of an explanation off his face. But his face is all over the place. He is delighted, scared, confused, lost, hopeful, and dejected.
    We are right in front of the bus station.
    â€œOh, for the love of —” I say, and interrupt myself in order to stop, grab his pathetic, sad little face, and kiss him demented and hard on his cheek. “There ya go,” I scold. “I will never do that again for as long as I live, so you better just cherish it. Be smart. Keep safe. Shoot the right guys, try not to shoot the wrong guys. Keep in touch. And come home to me with lots of great stories.”
    I shove him away from me, unable to carry my old friend anymore because jeez, I have got to do my own big thing now.
    I spin on my way to the entrance and run right into this big biff of a local 4-F fatso frat boy who has been kicking around this town probably since my dad took this very bus trip. Toby.
    â€œMove, Toby,” I say.
    â€œCan I have one?” Toby says, tapping his cheek and making kissy lips.
    â€œIf you mean one of these,” I say, giving him a prime look at my big right hand.
    He fakes a laugh and walks around me as I walk around him. Before I can enter the bus station I hear him again. “Can I have one?”
    â€œNo?” Rudi says, practically asking permission to not kiss the big stink of a guy. “Lemme go. Get off me….”
    I drop my bag, turn around.
    â€œYou know,” I say, stomping back big-boy style, “I’m going to be late for the war.”
    Toby squares on me, making that infuriating little move, the come on, bring it on gesture with the waving fingers of both upturned hands. Sometimes I swear my own mother could coax me into a punch-up if she did that.
    Good thing this ain’t Mom.
    I greet him with my full weight thrown behind a straight left hand. I have never landed a cleaner punch. My hips feel the aftershock. He straightens, and I punch him even harder with my right. Rudi is yelling something but I have no time for Rudi or words. I grab Toby with my left hand, hold his shirt tight while I shake him left-right-back-front ’til he is so off balance he doesn’t know where he is going and can’t land a punch.
    But I know where he is going. And everywhere he goes he finds my knuckles. I punch him, mouth, mouth, eye, nose, mouth, until I drive him straight back, down, and over the top