'You didn't really know these kids, did you?'
'Not close, you know. But I knew them.'
'Yeah. You tell anyone why I'm here?'
'No. I told them you were the caretaker, like you said.'
'Your mother had caretakers before?'
'Once. Once she did. Last year.
'What happened to him?'
The kid shrugged his shoulders. People come, people go. Cleaning women, pool boys, groundskeepers, caretakers…all the same to him.
That's what you get in a town where their idea of fighting racism is giving the maid a raise.
'Whose idea was it…to call me in?'
'Mine, I guess.'
'Your mother didn't say anything?'
'She always says the same thing. Every time she leaves. If I get into trouble, I should call you. It just never happened before.'
'Okay. I'll take this, get started tonight.'
'Started?'
'To look around, that's all. I'll only be gone a few hours.'
'Can I…'
'It'd be better if you didn't come along…'
Troy and Jennifer. Lana. Margo. Brandon. Scott.
Just names. Nothing in the kid's list to make them into people. Maybe he was right— the papers wouldn't cover this up— it wouldn't affect property values like a killer shark haunting the beaches. Tomorrow, I'd see if the local rag had a morgue.
I picked up the phone, punched in the number for the restaurant. It wouldn't matter if it appeared on their long–distance bill— the kid already knew it.
It rang three times. Then 'Gardens.'
'It's me.'
'That woman call again. Say for you to leave an address next time.'
'Address?'
'She say, you not talk to her, then she write you a letter, okay?'
'Yeah. Give her the Jersey box, okay, Mama?'
'Sure.'
'Anything else?'
'The Prof… see if you have message for him.'
'Just tell him nothing yet, okay?'
'Sure. You finish soon?' 'I don't know. Maybe.' 'Maybe not so good, there.' 'Maybe not.'
'Okay.'
I hung up the phone. Belinda, still calling. Even if she could keep Mama on the line long enough to run a trace, she'd only get the number in Brooklyn. We ran a series of bounces to the restaurant, changed them all the time. The Jersey P.O. box wouldn't help her either. It's a dead–drop— I've never been there. Every couple of weeks, one of Mama's delivery guys cleans it out, leaves everything at one of the noodle factories off Broome Street. Max stops by at random, picks up the load. He brings the mail back to his temple— I look at it whenever I have a chance. It's not fast, but it's safe. The lady cop wants to write me a letter, I'll get it. And the best she'll get is an answer.
I sat and smoked a couple of cigarettes. Not even thinking, just waiting for dark.
I watched the bands of light shift across the back fields. When the last thin strip fell into the ground, I closed my eyes.
It was just past ten when I came around. It was country–dark outside then. Rich and quiet–feeling, no neon–knives to dice it into pools of shadow.
I tapped the keys on the phone, holding the stiff cardboard in my hand. It was picked up on the second ring.
'Hello?'
It sounded like her…but not quite. As if she was a little juiced.
'Could I speak with Fancy please?'
A muffled giggle. Then…'Sure. Hold on…'
