I feel my gut tense up. “Tell me to be careful?”
“Maddie, what are you talking about?” my mother says. “How could you—”
“Ma!” I snap at her. “Let me talk to her.”
My sudden anger makes Maddie’s lower lip buckle. “Mom, I didn’t do anything wrong.” Her eyes well up with tears.
“It’s all right, baby,” I say. I scoop her out of her seat and she burrows into my neck. I think of the man and my skin crawls. Is this for real, and does it have anything to do with this afternoon? “Can you remember what he looks like, Maddie?”
“No,” she sobs.
“That’s okay. It’s all right, now.” I hug Maddie close and catch sight of my mother over the top of my daughter’s tousled red head. Her face has gone gray and drawn with fear; her gnarled fingers shake as she reaches for her water glass. “You okay, Ma?” I ask her.
She looks up, startled. “Fine,” she says.
Later, after we’ve cleaned up and Maddie’s safely in bed, my mother makes coffee in silence while I call the principal at Maddie’s school and tell him what happened during a recess that’s allegedly supervised. He reminds me that the back field is huge, that there are only two playground aides for 350 children, and that Maddie was playing at the far end. I suggest politely that he hire more aides, then show my fine upbringing by not threatening grievous bodily harm, although I let him know a lawsuit is always an interesting alternative. Then I call Maddie’s teacher, who mentions that Maddie has a vivid imagination. Not that vivid, I say to her, before I hang up.
I call the police in my tiny borough to report the incident; they seem happy to leave their game of checkers to come over and do real police work, like on TV. One even has braces on his teeth. My mother lubricates them with hot coffee and I give them free legal advice, so they promise to cruise around the house tonight and the playground tomorrow and the next day. I decide not to tell them about Armen’s murder or what happened to me at the courthouse; it’s out of their distinctly suburban league.
But I’m getting the message the killer is sending, loud and clear. Someone is using everything they can— including my six-year-old—to warn me off, but it won’t work. It only makes me want to fight back harder. Where do they get off threatening my child? They haven’t met up with the fury of a single mother. Especially one who’s run out of alimony.
19
The phone rings after the police leave. “Grace.” It’s a man’s voice, almost in a whisper. “It’s Winn.”
“Who?”
“Winn. Shake and Bake. Get down here fast.”
“What? It’s eleven o’clock at night.”
“Please. I can’t talk long.”
“Listen, you, somebody tried to grab my daughter today. And somebody hit me from behind.”
“Are you all right?” He sounds stricken, but not as stricken as I am and only half as stricken as my mother.
“She’s fine, we both are.”
“Was she hurt?”
“No, but only because she was at school. I can’t have this, Winn.”
“I’ll protect her. I’ll get somebody on her.”
“Who, kindergarten cop?”
“I’ll make him a teacher. A janitor.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I can’t talk now, just come down here. It’s Artie. He needs help.”
“Artie? Where?”
“Northern Liberties.”
Not one of Philadelphia’s showcase neighborhoods. “What are you doing there?”
“We’re at Keeton’s. On the corner, at Third. There’s a sign.”
“Is Artie okay? In danger?”
“Nothing like that, but come now.” He hangs up.
I hang up slowly, looking at the phone. I hate to leave Maddie tonight, after what happened to her, nor am I excited about driving around, after what happened to me. On the other hand, it might help to talk to Winn, and Artie’s in trouble. There’s a caffeinated couple of cops driving circles around my house and a bulldog of a grandmother seething in the living room; my daughter has never been safer. I decide to go, mumbling an excuse to my mother, like in high school.
I drive into town with an eye on the rearview mirror, and no one appears to be following me. I reach the warehouse district in a half hour. The streets are wider here than they are in the rest of Philly and almost deserted. Trash mars the sidewalk, and the homeless beg from the traffic on the expressway ramp. One man, apparently crazy, is draped in a blanket despite the warm, breezy night. I look away until I remember that it’s an apparently crazy man I’m looking for. I look back, but it’s not Winn.
I drive around the block, past a graffiti mural on an electrical wholesale store, until I find a ratty tavern. An old-time window of thick glass block is stuck into a dingy brick facade. Over the black-painted door a pink neon sign glows KE TON’S. Artie is lying in front, passed out under a dim streetlight. Winn is propped up against the lamppost, fuzzy-faced and dressed in a raincoat, looking oddly like a degenerate Paddington Bear. I pull up to the curb and get out of the wagon.
Winn smiles vacantly when he spots me. “Harvard’s sick, Miss Rossi.”
I kneel over Artie. There’s stubble on his formerly handsome face, and his clothes are a mess. But then they always are. “Artie? You okay?”
Artie opens one eye, then covers his startled face with his hands. “It’s alive! Make it go away, Grace. It’s heinous!”
Winn smiles. “Harvard drank too much.”
“I figured.”
“I figured you figured.” Winn claps his hands. “I figured you figured I figured you figured.”
“He’s crazy as a fuckin’ loon, Grace,” Artie says, his eyes still closed. “Sarah was right.”
“Bye-bye, Sarah,” Winn says.
Artie looks up at me, his mouth curving down in Pagliacci’s exaggerated frown. “Sarah went bye-bye, Grace.”
“I’m sorry, Artie.”
“She was in love with Armen, she admitted it.” His eyes fill up with drunken tears. “She never loved me.”
Poor kid. “I’m sorry.”
“I knew it all along, Grace. She thinks I’m stupid, but I’m not.” He licks his dry lips. “I knew from the way she looked at him.”
I grab the folds of Artie’s denim jacket; it occurs to me that I have picked up a drunk before. This drunk budges only an inch.
“Armen was my friend, Grace. He was my friend.”
“I know, Artie.”
“I was right! I am a genius! I made law review!” he rails into the night, then his head lolls to one side. A piece of wax paper rolls over him like urban tumbleweed.
I struggle to move him but can’t. “Would you help me, Shake and Bake?”
“No.” Winn wags his head back and forth, ersatz autistic before my eyes. “I’m busy.”
“That’s funny, Shakie.” My lower back begins to ache; I’m too old for this and in no mood. I straighten up and glare at Winn. “Now get up and help Mommy.”
