working by my window, I became aware of a creeping uneasiness. And then I realized, bolting upright from my desk and going to the window-listening.
Not even a snarl from Grendel’s lair. I looked down at their house, taken aback to see that their kitchen blinds were shut tight.
Sometime later, I heard a noisy old diesel truck with squeaky brakes parking over on their street, followed by the sound of yo-dudes hollering to each other as they jumped out.
I swept beyond our section of sidewalk-affecting the aspect of an exceptionally good neighbor-all the way to the corner, about forty feet, where I could see the front of the Grendel house.
A medium-size truck belonging to a junk-hauling business was parked there, and two beefy yo-dudes were hoisting a beat-up old washing machine from the basement through the bulkhead doors opening up onto the sidewalk. No sooner did they set down their unwieldy load than another old appliance came floating eerily upward, like a spooky stage apparition through a trapdoor, elevated by a couple more yo-dudes from down below.
Since I was standing in front of my friend’s house, knowing she was at work, I decided to tidy up her sidewalk too, going about it quite methodically so I could keep an eye on the scene, exchanging greetings with passersby. My neighbors were especially curious, looking puzzled regarding the sheer number of discarded washers and dryers lining up on the sidewalk, a half-dozen or more, all of which were wrapped excessively with duct tape.
The appliances were also covered with sticky contact paper designating four decades of decorative patterns and styles: dainty Williamsburg prints of the ’50s, psychedelic op art of the ’60s, metallic disco dazzle of the ’70s.
Why in the world would somebody have so many broken washers and dryers? It didn’t seem possible any one family could go through so many of them, not even in a lifetime. And why get rid of them now? Why not just wall them up in the middle of the basement like the nitwits did with our still? Were they moving? Were they dead?
Later that day, I strolled over to the market to get some provisions and saw that the truck was gone. Grendel’s Mother was out front with a bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush, scouring her stoop.
I couldn’t believe my ears at first, but as I got closer I confirmed that was she was, indeed, listening to Louis Prima. I had never heard a pleasing sound emanating from that house before, and felt myself grinning at her when she looked up. She was squinting against the setting sun and the smoke of a cigarette that was jammed in her crinkly, chubby cheek.
Remarkably, she kind of grinned back, as if she had forgotten for a moment to appear freakish, and I felt triumphant for having overcome my revulsion. Those bookies didn’t call me Smiley for nothing.
A week later my husband heard from a neighbor that Grendel had left his job sometime back in winter, and soon after, skipped town. One theory had him hopelessly beholden to a loanshark for gambling debts. Another had him caught red-handed trying to sell snapshots of kids he had stolen from customers.
I had my own theory, of course, but I didn’t share it with anyone-just minding my own Bella Vista business- because what do I know anyway?
PART IV.
LONERGAN’S GIRL BY DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI
Somewhere out there, in the dark, was a noise. Lonergan twitched and tried to roll over but something blocked his way. He rolled the other way then stopped, sensing a huge void.
And woke up on the Frankford El.
The train thundered down a set of rails one story above the street, the whole works supported by a green skeleton of steel. Lonergan was in a middle car, sitting on the end of a bench near the center door. There were about a dozen passengers with him, almost all of them reeking of beer and cigarettes and gin. Everyone spaced themselves apart on the bench so they wouldn’t have to stare at a stranger across the way. Or watch a stranger vomit.
Lonergan briefly wondered where the El was now, how long he’d been asleep.
Outside the tops of dark buildings sped by, the sun having long vanished behind them. Best Lonergan could guess, it was around eleven p.m. The El slowed and began to screech. He recognized the sound. This was where the green skeleton curved from Front Street to Kensington Avenue. The Dauphin-York station. He was halfway there.
When the El first opened a little over a year ago, it was the eighth wonder of the Quaker City. Imagine-riding a new, arch-roofed Brill car from City Hall to the outskirts of Frankford in less than twenty-five minutes-a trip that ordinarily took close to an hour by other means! Thousands lined up to try it out, squeezing onto the benches and clutching the leather straps that hung from the ceiling.
Lonergan had been one of them, along with Marie and the boy one bitter Saturday in early December ’22. They didn’t mind the lack of heat, or the way the cars tossed their bodies around like dice in a cup. Riding the El was a thrill like no other. The boy’s eyes were wide the entire trip.
Lonergan had no idea that in less than a year he’d be riding the El all the time. And now he actively hated the damned thing.
It froze him, the night wind chilled by the Delaware before it blasted into the cars. It carried him past neighborhoods he didn’t know, and didn’t care to know. It jolted his body before and after each stop. Worst of all, the Frankford El constantly reminded him how badly things had gone since the elections.
The El pulled away from Dauphin-York. Lonergan’s body tipped to the left. He wasn’t fully awake yet. Where had he nodded off? Somewhere under City Hall? Jesus, he was tired.
A hard chill cut through his coat. He should have worn a warmer shirt. Lonergan’s city-issue bluecoat was warm, but he wasn’t wearing it. The City liked their cops in uniform as they made their way to their stations-the more bluecoats, the more citizens enjoyed the illusion of a well-protected place. Well, Lonergan decided he wasn’t wearing it any longer than the required seven hours. That’s all the City deserved for its $5.50 a day.
Huntingdon now. The same stops, day after day, night and morning. He had them memorized. Sometimes it helped make the trip go faster, sometimes it didn’t. He should have picked up a pulp at the newsstand. He’d forgotten. The doors opened. A gust of frigid air whipped through the car. Rush hour was long over. The only people who rode the El this late on a Sunday were returning from a night at the cider saloons, the gambling dens, and the rowdy houses in the Tenderloin. The lack of body heat made the cars even colder.
Officer John Lonergan, out in the cold, now and forever after.
Political exile had come swiftly. The Vare boys had won in November, but by that time Lonergan had already broken with the Vares in a very messy fashion. One minute he was their prize enforcer; the next, their ultimate betrayer. At the time, Lonergan thought he’d played it smart by aligning himself with the competition. Not so smart, after all.
Ward leaders don’t have the authority to fire cops, but they can strongly recommend to your captain that a transfer is in the best interests of the Department. It took less than forty-eight hours to have him reassigned to a
