The Devil's Only Friend by Mitchell Bartoy

but I couldn’t keep a flash of fear from lighting me up. I saw that Federle carried a bundle under his arm as he came toward the bed.
    â€œI brought some clothes for you.”
    â€œThey won’t let me go.”
    â€œSooner or later,” he said. “They won’t keep you forever.” He looked Chew over. “I’m Ray Federle,” he said, shifting the bundle to his other arm so he could put out his hand.
    â€œChew. Hank Chew.”
    â€œFriend of Pete, are you?”
    â€œNot so friendly as I might have thought,” said Chew. “I’m just heading out.”
    â€œChew is a newspaperman,” I said.
    Federle looked more sharply at him and shifted his feet on the floor.
    Chew ripped out the pages with writing on them from his little book, folded them carefully, and tucked them into his vest. Then he moved to the door and grabbed his coat with some deliberation.
    â€œComes a time, Caudill,” he said, “give me a ring.”
    Federle watched him go and then positioned himself facing the door.
    â€œNewsman, ah? Think you’ll make the papers now?”
    â€œNot yet,” I said. “I don’t think so.” I could see that Federle was looking for some signal from me to put him at ease, but I couldn’t produce one. I eyed the bundle. “I won’t ever fit into any clothes of yours,” I said.
    â€œIt’s your things. The coppers were inside your place tromping over everything, and I asked if I could grab a few things for you.” He moved silently around the bed to sit in the chair.
    â€œThey just let you in?” I asked him.
    â€œI told them I was a veteran and all.” He smiled and rubbed his palm over his thigh. “I come out on a disability.”
    The chair by my bed was set up in front of the window, and it was hard to look beyond Federle’s slender figure to see the trees. I guess I drifted off for a time—or just closed my eye—because it startled me to hear him speak again.
    â€œSome kind of case you’re working on with Chew?”
    â€œCase?”
    â€œI heard you talking.”
    â€œChew is like a buzzard. He’s always looking for a story.”
    â€œI could help you out, Pete. Let me help you out. I can handle myself. You’re in no shape.”
    â€œDon’t you already have a job?”
    â€œThey got me pushing a broom,” he said.
    No matter how much they doped me up, whether I was awake or asleep or distracted by talk, I couldn’t escape the pain. I couldn’t stop thinking. I couldn’t just jump up and tear my body away and go soaring off. I was trapped inside myself, and there was no escape. It brought up a panic that set my heart to racing, which brought more throbbing pain to every part of me that had blood.
    â€œListen, Federle,” I said, talking low so he’d lean close, “any chance you could get your hands on a gun for me?”
    He sat back in the chair. “Sure, I could, probably. But—ah—what exactly were you thinking of?”
    â€œSomething I could hold in my hand. Something that wouldn’t show under a jacket.”
    He mulled it over. “Sure. Maybe I can see. But what’s the case?”
    â€œI’ll be out in a couple of days,” I said. “I’ll come and see you.”
    I could see how it hurt when he pushed himself out of the chair. Just a small grimace he tried to clamp down on.
    â€œGet some sleep,” he said. “That’s what you need.” He looked down at me tenderly, like he wanted to say something more. But then he resigned himself and walked stiffly out of the room.
    To watch him go I had to shift my head, which jangled my neck so much that I saw colors. I couldn’t see how I had ever been friendly enough for Federle to make him want to latch on to me like he had. Maybe he had been through something over the ocean. Maybe I reminded him of somebody else. Except for