“Pardon me if I lack sympathy for the self-righteous bitch.”
“Marcy.” I laid my hand on hers. “I didn’t tell you this to elicit sympathy. As I mentioned at our last meeting, my papa has ties to the organization. He and the attorney approached those in top positions in Chicago, once they knew how Hank’s death was orchestrated. They in turn let their displeasure be known to the leaders in Philadelphia. The upshot is that Chicago brokered a deal to provide you and the kids with monetary support, as a sign of their desire to make compensation.”
“They want to pay me money for my husband? For my children’s father?”
A young couple rose and left the bar, obviously disturbed by the words that Marcy almost shouted.
“Please, take a drink of your wine and hear me out. I’m on your side. I’ll do whatever you decide. Okay?”
She knocked back a good amount, exhaled a ragged breath and nodded. “Okay,” she said, unblinking eyes on me.
“Because Hank set up the life insurance policy under false pretenses, it most likely will not be honored. The Philly mob is willing to establish a trust fund for you and the kids, for double the face amount of Hank’s policy, two million. The trust will pay you up to one hundred thousand a year, plus any extraordinary expenses like medical bills or school tuition.” I took her hand and squeezed it between my own. “I know that money is not enough to compensate for a man’s life, for the future that your family will face without Hank. But it will give you financial security, both now and in the future. When the time comes, Henry Junior can pursue a science degree. The girls can go to college and get good jobs. The financial burden you’ve been carrying will disappear. If you want, you can ask the trust to pay off the house and quit work.” I leaned in slightly. “It’s pitifully inadequate for the cost you’ve paid, Marcy, but it can help you face the future without worry. They’ve also agreed to pay thirty thousand toward Hank’s funeral expenses. Will you think about it?”
“Give me a minute,” she said, and headed for the bathrooms at the back of the tavern. When she returned almost five minutes later, her makeup was washed off and her lips were set in a grim line. “I’d be hurting my children if I refused the money.” She stood over me. “So tell them I’ll take it. But also tell them I hope they rot in hell.”
As she marched out of the bar, I murmured, “I have no doubt they will.”
Chapter 36
The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living. — Marcus Tullius Cicero
While she waited for the county to release Hank’s body for interment, Marcy made funeral decisions. Today, she would commit the man she hadn’t seen in five years to the ground, grieving the life they might have had.
I slipped a light gray coatdress over an as-yet unworn berry-colored demi bra and hipster panties, thinking of Wukowski’s hands on my skin as he undressed me. Before I could get maudlin over yet another memory, I allowed myself a moment to revel in the feelings. Then, with a sigh, I checked myself in the mirror.
I’d toned down my usual spiky hairstyle, opting instead for a side-parted, gelled look. Maybe I’ll let it grow out a bit, I thought. Asymmetrical bangs might be fun. I needed a change. No, I needed distraction. After inserting small platinum and diamond earrings into my earlobes, I grabbed a pair of stacked-heel black pumps and made for the front door.
When Marcy asked me whether she had to use the Family-backed funeral home that Bart recommended, I assured her that the choice was hers. “Good,” she said, “because I won’t put their money back into their pockets.” So the service was at a mid-sized, well-respected establishment near her home.
Local news teams were set up along the perimeter of the parking lot, trying to get sound bites from mourners as they passed by. I even spotted a Fox 29 Philadelphia logo on a shoulder-hoisted camera. For once, I appreciated the bitterly cold wind. Let them freeze, I thought, ignoring mics thrust in my face.
Inside, the funeral home staff was in the process of opening sliding dividers to create more space for the overflow crowd in the hallway leading into the parlor where Hank’s coffin rested. A multitude of young men and women, Hank’s students from six years ago and earlier, gathered in small groups, talking in undertones and laughing, then stopping themselves as they attempted to regain the somber expressions that the occasion seemed to demand. How lovely that Marcy would have this remembrance of Hank’s positive influence. He was so much more than a Mafioso.
I hung up my coat and made my way into the room where the family stood greeting visitors. Two women flanked Marcy. From the resemblance, I decided they must be her mother and sister. A small herd of children played in a side parlor. I picked out Henry Junior, looking older than his ten years in a suit and tie; Susie, an eight-year old image of Marcy; and little Marjorie, only six, twirling around so that her pretty blue dress swirled around her. Young Henry would be the only one to hold real memories of his father, and those would fade all too quickly. That saddened me more than Hank’s death.
When I got to the front of the line, I shook hands with Marcy’s sister and mother, and embraced Marcy in a gentle hug. “I’m so sorry I never knew Hank,” I said. “He touched a lot of lives for good.” She nodded and dabbed at her eyes.
Before I could say more, Bobbie spoke from behind me. “Angie, I’m sorry I’m late. Augusta kept me waiting while she primped.”
I turned abruptly, looking into the smiling
