half feet apart along the perimeter of the comer lot while Mr. Canelli started restorative work on his lawn.
They talked while they worked. Jack learned that the damage had been done by a smallish, low-riding, light- colored car and a dark van. Mr. Canelli hadn't been able to get the license plate numbers. He’d called the police, but the vandals were long gone by the time one of the local cops came by. The police had been called before, but the incidents were so random and, until now, of such little consequence, that they hadn't taken the complaints too seriously.
The next step was to secure three dozen four-foot lengths of six-inch pipe and hide them in Mr. Canelli's garage. They used a posthole digger to open a three-foot hole directly behind each yew. Late one night, Jack and Mr. Canelli mixed up a couple of bags of cement in the garage and filled each of the four-foot iron pipes. Three days later, again under cover of darkness, the cement-filled pipes were inserted into the holes behind the yews and the dirt packed tight around them. Each bush now had twelve to fifteen inches of makeshift lolly column hidden within its branches.
The white picket fence was rebuilt around the yard and Mr. Canelli continued to work at getting his lawn back into shape. The only thing left for Jack to do was sit back and wait.
It took a while. August ended. Labor Day passed, school began again. By the third week of September, Mr. Canelli had the yard graded again. The new grass had sprouted and was filling in nicely.
And that, apparently, was what they’d been waiting for.
The sounds of sirens awoke Jack at 1:30 on a Sunday morning. Red lights were flashing up at the comer by Mr. Canelli's house. Jack pulled on his jeans and ran to the scene.
Two first-aid rigs were pulling away as he approached the top of the block. Straight ahead a black van lay on its side by the curb. The smell of gasoline filled the air. In the wash of light from a street lamp overheard, he saw that the undercarriage was damaged beyond repair: The left front lower control arm was torn loose; the floor pan was ripped open exposing a bent drive shaft; the differential was knocked out of line, and the gas tank was leaking. A fire truck stood by, readying to hose down the area.
He walked on toward the front of Mr. Canelli's house where a yellow Camaro had stopped nose-on to the yard. The windshield was spiderwebbed with cracks and steam seeped around the edges of the sprung hood. A quick glance under the hood revealed a ruptured radiator, bent front axle, and cracked engine block.
Mr. Canelli stood on his front steps. He waved Jack over and stuck a fifty-dollar bill into his hand.
Jack stood beside him and watched until both vehicles were towed away, until the street had been hosed down, until the fire truck and police cars were gone. He was bursting inside. He felt he could leap off the steps and fly around the yard if he wished. He could not remember ever feeling so good. Nothing smokable, ingestible, or injectable would ever give him a high like this.
He was hooked.
5
One hour, three Coronas, and two kirs later, it dawned upon Jack that he’d told much more than he’d intended. He’d gone on from Mr. Canelli to describe some of his more interesting fix-it jobs. Kolabati seemed to enjoy them all, especially the ones where he’d taken special pains to make the punishment fit the crime.
A combination of factors had loosened his tongue. First of all was a feeling of privacy. He and Kolabati seemed to have the far end of this wing of Peacock Alley to themselves. The dozens of ongoing conversations in the wing blended into a susurrant undertone that wound around them, masking their words and making them indistinguishable from the rest.
But most of all…Kolabati…so interested, so intent upon what he had to say that he kept talking, saying anything to keep that fascinated look in her eyes. He talked to her as he’d talked to no one else he could remember—except perhaps Abe, who’d learned about him over a period of years and had seen much of it happen. Kolabati was getting a big helping in one sitting.
Throughout his narrative, Jack watched for her reaction, fearing she might turn away like Gia had. But Kolabati was obviously not like Gia. Her eyes fairly glowed with enthusiasm and...admiration.
The time came, however, to shut up. He’d said enough. They sat for a quiet moment, toying with their empty glasses. Jack was about to ask her if she wanted a refill when she turned to him.
'You don't pay taxes, do you.”
The statement startled him. Uneasy, he wondered how she knew.
'Why do you say that?'
'I sense you are a self-made outcast. Am I right?'
' 'Self-made outcast.' I like that.'
'Liking it is not the same as answering the question.'
'I consider myself a sort of sovereign state. I don't recognize other governments within my borders.'
'But you've exiled yourself from more than the government. You live and work completely outside society. Why?'
'I'm not an intellectual. I can't give you a carefully reasoned manifesto. It's just the way I want to live.'
Her eyes bored into him. 'I don't accept that. Something cut you off. What was it?'
This woman was uncanny. It seemed she could look into his mind and read all his secrets. Yes—an incident had caused him to withdraw from the rest of 'civilized' society. But he couldn't tell her about it. He felt at ease with Kolabati, but wasn't about to confess to murder.
'I'd rather not say.'
She studied him. 'Are your parents alive?'
Jack felt his insides tighten. 'Only my father.'
'I see. Did your mother die of natural causes?'
She can read minds! That's the only explanation!
