Finished Business

They sat with their bourbons, an awkward silence invading the space between them. The quiet wasn’t peace—it was just the first moment all day when nothing was bleeding.

Wojo finally broke it, voice low, like he was afraid the words might crack in his throat. “I miss the boys, Mac. Miss the stink of wet canvas, the rot of dungarees that never dried, the rattle of 782 gear. Miss the bad jokes, the worse chow, the gunpowder in the air. Miss leading the best sons‑of‑bitches I ever knew. Mostly…” He swallowed. “Mostly I feel guilty I wasn’t hitting the last beach with ’em.”

He turned his head, studying Mac like a man reading a gravestone. “Those kids need people like you and me to keep ’em breathing. I know you miss that.”

Mac took a slow sip, eyes dropping to the scarred tabletop. “I miss keeping you out of trouble.”

Wojo snorted. “What I can’t figure is why rich people feel the need to murder and steal.”

Mac’s mouth twitched. “You and me, we’ve lived out of seabags our whole damn lives. Payday to payday. Nothing to steal because we never owned a thing worth taking.” He nudged his glass toward Wojo and the bottle. “Top me off. You can ask God at final muster. Don’t expect an answer.”

“He killed his own wife, Mac. His own wife. I’m only sorry his father‑in‑law put a bullet in him before we could.

Mac let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped in him for years. “You’re making me feel human, Wojo. Don’t do that. It stings. She was a good kid. Didn’t deserve the ending she got. Same as our Marines never deserved theirs.”

Wojo nodded, eyes gone distant. “I guess that’s why God made men like you and me. And the padre. And Burke. To try and make sense of the rot.”

Mac checked his watch, the gesture crisp, automatic. “The padre wants us in the chapel in twenty minutes.”

He stood, paused, and looked back at Wojo. “He says it’s time to scrape off the filth the world’s been piling on us.”

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