intimidated and were bound to make a serious stink.
Higgins was still out cold. I transferred the credit cards, driver’s licenses, and cash to his wallet. I wiped my prints off the gun and stuffed it back in his pocket. Then I drove him over to Gilmore’s precinct, dumped him at the curb, and split.
The cops wouldn’t know what to make of him at first, but they’d hold on to him tight. His record would speak for itself, as would his association with Fingers Brown and the skirted gunrunning allegations. Loaded with fresh charges, they’d sniff around the bowling alley again and Fingers would spook and cut him loose. The only question was whether Fingers was angry enough to take a run at me on his own. I didn’t think he had the heart.
I drove home and carried the groceries in. As my mother started unpacking them she said, “This turkey’s starting to thaw.” She looked up at me in surpriseI r?. “Something happened, I can tell by your face. Where’ve you been? What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Your cheeks are flushed.”
“I’m fine.”
Her face hardened. “I hate when I’m lied to.”
I helped her put the groceries away. Everything went in the same place as when I was a kid. That would never change, not in five years, not in fifty. There was something comforting in the familiarity. Another minor symbol of saccharine sentimental value.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“Mal and Grey, who knows. Your father’s in the garage with his collection.”
It stopped me. “What collection?”
She turned and grinned. “Oh, you haven’t been introduced to his hobby yet?”
“Dad’s got a hobby?”
“He has for some time. Go look at it.”
“It?”
“Them. Go ahead. In the garage.”
“Am I going to want to see this?” I asked. I didn’t know what I thought might be out there, but I had trepidations. My father with a hobby? What might that entail? Stamps? Coins? Empty beer cans from around the world?
The other day I’d worried about him being bored after his retirement. Now I knew he was still doing a little second-story prowling, and not just to keep himself busy. But was there more going on?
“You look scared,” my mother said.
“I’m not scared, I just never thought of him as having a hobby.”
“It’s not porn.”
“I didn’t think it was porn. And I don’t think porn can actually be a hobby either. And it wouldn’t scare me.”
“I’m just telling you, that’s not it,” she said.
“Okay.”
“Retirement gives people too much time to think. They have to do something to stay busy and focus their attention.”
“How about you?” I asked. “What focuses your attention?”
“I take care of the family,” she said simply. “I’ve got an old man inside who needs as much care as a newborn. I’ve got a teenage daughter dating a creep. Worrying about her is a full-time job on its own. And I have to clean a house three times bigger than we need, because half the space is for loot. I even clean the loot sometimes. It’s all junk. We should get rid of it, but it would take as long to dig it out of the house as it took to put in. You know some of the shit that’s hidden away? But who knows, there could be a de Kooning or a Pollock stuck in these walls. Those three, they don’t want to get rid of any of it, because they think the police are watching. The cops who were chasing all that crap have been dead thirty years. We should have a garage sale and really put some money in the bank.”
“I agree,” I said.
“Well, when you get out there, try to talk your father into it.”
I went out and around to the garage. The side door was ajar. I stepped into the huge work areion?a where my grandfather and his brothers had done most of the woodwork for the house’s secret rooms. JFK heard me and clambered to his feet and moseyed over.
I was expecting rebuilt classic cars. My old man hadn’t been much of a car thief, but he had taught me how to boost the muscle speedsters of his teenage years. I thought he might be looking to the past and trying to get back in touch with his youth.
It wasn’t a car.
My father was spraying glass cleaner and wiping down an enormous display case with six lengthy glass shelves and mini-track interior lighting.
He glanced over his shoulder and said, “Hello, Terry. So what do you think?”
“Well… it’s not porn.”
Inside were figurines. I estimated there to be at least a hundred pieces. Most of them were of Asian men and women and children, pulling rickshaws, feeding barnyard animals, playing with dogs. I didn’t find them beautiful. I didn’t think them ugly. I forced myself not to frown. I made myself keep my hands at my sides instead of reaching up to scratch my head. My father opened the case and started spraying the inside of the glass door with no-streak cleaner.
I said, “Can I touch them?”
“Sure.”
I picked one up. It was hollow and very light. It felt cheap to me. There wasn’t a speck of dust on it. I turned it over. I was surprised to see the words “Made in Occupied Japan.”
“Why these?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” my father said. “Gramp had a couple of them around when I was a kid. They caught my attention somehow. I’d snatch one every now and again from some house, kept them in a cache hole in one of the crawl spaces. For the last couple of years I’ve been hunting through antiques shops. Gives me something to do with myself.”
“Why keep them out here? Why not bring them into the house?”
He shrugged. “They’re not really for show. They’re just for me. I like looking at them. They’re something delicate made during a terrible time.”
He sounded a little embarrassed, like he expected me to think less of him.
“Tell me about them,” I said.
“Nothing too interesting to tell. They were produced by U.S. forces from ’45 to around early ’52, at the end of the occupation. It was a short production period so these pieces are fairly scarce. The bisque figures are less common than the porcelain, and usually they’re of higher quality. You saw the import stamp on the bottom. They were all required to have the ‘Made in Occupied Japan’ or just ‘Occupied Japan’ mark.”
“How valuable are they?” I asked.
“Depends on the individual piece,” he said. “Piano babies can range from twenty-five to a hundred dollars. Toby mugs from, say, ten to maybe eighty-five dollars. There’s a couple of shops out in Southampton that really try to gouge you. Salt-and-pepper shakers list for up to maybe forty dollars a pair.”
I didn’t know what a piano baby or a Toby mug might be, but my father was actually excited to be talking about the figurines, so I let him go on. I’d imagined they must be expensive antiques worth in the thousands. To hear him price them at ten or twenty ›
He went on about the salt-and-pepper shakers, poodles, boy with begging dog, boy with fish on line, girl holding flower, and how thousands of pieces had been copied in European styles. I wasn’t really listening. I was watching him. He looked happy and animated. There wasn’t much in the world for him to be buoyant about, so I was glad he had this.
My father was too short to wipe down the top few inches of the case, so I did it for him. When I was finished I stared at my reflection and watched the man behind me. It was the only way I could meet his eyes.
“Dad,” I said.
