Final Appeal

He looks directly at me. “Are you really going to do this?”

I think of Armen. He loved me; he was murdered. And he didn’t take any goddamn bribe. “Yep.”

“Christ.” He rubs his beard. “All right. If you insist on this, then all you should do is keep your eyes and ears open around his office. Try to answer the phones. That’s it.”

“Why? What am I looking for?”

The toilet flushes in the bathroom and Winn snatches a Times crossword puzzle from the debris on the coffee table and scribbles in the blank squares. “Call me if Galanter gets phone calls from any of these characters. Or if he has lunch with them, meets with them at all. That’s all I want you to do, got it? I’ll take it from there.” He tears out the puzzle and hands it to me. “I also wrote down the number of the pay phone at the shelter. I’m there most of the time now. If you call, say you’re my cousin. Ask for Rain Man.”

I look at the crossword puzzle. After a phone number, reading down is THESAURUS, and reading across is SPOOL. Underneath that is a list of names, all as Italian as mine. I feel a twinge of shame, then fear. A mobster, that close to my child?

The bathroom door opens and Artie steps out wearing a red Budweiser bath towel around his waist. “Everybody dance now!” he sings, and thrusts his pelvis expertly at us.

“Artie!” Winn shouts idiotically, lapsing instantly into character. “You’re all better!”

“I am better!” Artie strikes a muscleman pose, his wet biceps glistening with leftover water. In the middle of his chest is a slick basketball.

“You look good!” Winn says, applauding. He leaps to his feet with joy and bunny-hops over to Artie. “Everybody, everybody, everybody dance!” They form a conga line and dance around me on the sofa.

I sit back and laugh, marveling at how deceptive appearances can be. The man playing the fool is really a shrewd federal agent; the Ivy Leaguer is dumb enough to engrave a basketball onto his chest. And what about me? I’m somewhere in the middle, definitely involved. It’s a surprise when I realize why.

I want justice.

Everybody dance now.

  20

Needlepoint is usually surefire therapy. I take refuge in it at the most stressful times and have come through a divorce and even Maddie’s hernia operation with a few very nice pillows. I’m hoping needlepoint will get me through high crimes and misdeameanors, but this may be too much to ask of a hobby.

I tug a pristine silver needle through a tiny white square. The yarn comes through with ease, filling in an infinitesimal block of emerald green in a rolling English landscape. I favor the smaller scrims; they demand more concentration. I stitch another itsy-bitsy square and look behind me for the local squad car, parked across the street. The skinny cop in braces sits in the front seat, engrossed in the newspaper; he looks even younger than last night, if such a thing is possible.

I check on Maddie. She swings on a swing, pumping her legs back and forth. I can see her smile broaden with pride as the swing goes higher. She’s still learning to coordinate the pumping action; it’s not as easy as it looks. I wave to her, but she doesn’t see.

I return to England after a careful glance around the neighborhood playground. No felons anywhere, just a few children playing in the sandbox and a mother here and there. It’s not busy today; it’s Saturday and everybody’s out running errands, which is what I would be doing if I weren’t somewhere in Northamptonshire.

I look up at Maddie, still on the swings on the far side of the fenced kiddie area of the playground. She was deliriously happy the day she hit six and graduated to the big kids area, but I don’t like it much. The swings are too damn high for my comfort level, and my park bench is too far away. If you think I was protective before, you should see me now.

“You’re dead!” screams a little boy, and I jump. The child runs by, chasing another boy with a toy Uzi. “You have to lay down, I killed you!”

This is why I’m glad I don’t have boys.

England waits while my blood pressure returns to normal. I watch the boys chase each other in the dappled sunshine around a white hobbyhorse on a steel coil, then double back around the sandbox and out toward the swings. Of course they run right in front of the swings, directly in harm’s way. Don’t these monsters have mothers? They survive the gauntlet of swings and run past the bench out by the tennis courts. A man in a black sweater sits on the bench; his head barely follows the boys as they run by him.

Odd.

I didn’t see him when we came. There’s a newspaper on his lap, but he’s not reading it. I take another stitch and yank the yarn through quickly. I look up at the man on the opposite bench.

He’s still there, but too far away for me to make out his features. His hair is dark, and he seems broad- shouldered underneath the bulky V-neck sweater. Something about him looks familiar. Then I remember. He looks a lot like the man I saw at the police station and the memorial service, but I can’t be positive.

Still.

I turn around to the police car. It’s there, but it’s empty. No adolescent cop, no newspaper. I swallow hard. The cop was here a minute ago. I look down the street. He’s standing in front of the borough library, talking to an old woman carrying a stack of books. He’s too far away to see or hear me.

Jesus. Stay calm.

I look back at the man on the bench, watching him as he scans the playground, apparently harmlessly. His sweater is much too heavy for such a balmy day, and it’s bulgy enough to accommodate a gun in a shoulder holster. He could be with the Mob; he looks the part. Is he the same man as at the police station?

That man had a black car with Virginia plates.

I take a quick stitch and casually look over the cars along the street. There’s my wagon, then another wagon and a minivan. His car isn’t there; so far, so good. I glance at the library lot next to the playground. The chrome grill of a dark car peeks at me from around the library, glinting in the sunlight. I bite my lip. It looks like the black car, but it also looks like a zillion other American cars. It’s parked with the front end facing me, and there are no license plates in the front. Maybe it’s from Virginia, maybe not.

I can’t stand this. I feel more nervous by the second.

I take another stitch and peek over at the cop. He’s nodding as the old woman unloads her pile of plastic- covered books into his arms. Terrific. My yarn snags; a notch of kelly green explodes through a yellow thatched roof. I hate needlepoint.

I stare at the man. He’s still sitting there, but now he’s checking out the swings. Maddie’s not the only child on them, but he appears to be watching her. I look back at him, then at her. She’s between us, but he’s closer to her than I am.

Relax, I tell myself. You handled back labor, you can handle this. I weave the needle into the scrim border for safekeeping.

Maddie sails back and forth, her cotton skirt billowing each time she swings forward. The man in the sweater watches her, unsmiling.

What the hell? Is he the man from the school playground? Is he the man from the police station? Why is he watching my daughter?

Suddenly, the man takes the newspaper off his lap and stands up.

I set my needlepoint aside and stand up.

He looks up at the swings and so do I. With a start, I see that Maddie’s swing isn’t going nearly as high as it was; she’s beginning to slow down. She slows to a low arc, dragging an untied Keds on the ground, kicking up loose, dry dirt. She’s getting ready to jump off.

My heart starts to pound.

The man takes a step toward the swings.

The cop rearranges the books. The old woman takes his arm.

I feel breathless. I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out.

The man walks right toward Maddie. Unmistakably.