“Nope. We’re starting to wonder if maybe they took their shot and moved on.”
An elderly gentleman is strolling past with the help of a cane. He peers up at the house as he goes. Pat studies the old-timer on the sidewalk for a moment, then smiles at him and lifts a hand to wave at him in greeting. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“Who’s that?” she asks.
I’ve been back in Cedar Heights for over a year now, and I’m still meeting the new crop of neighbors. “I don’t recognize him. He looks like he belongs around here, though, doesn’t he? Probably someone’s grandfather.”
“It’s only been a few days, Tony,” she says when she turns back to me and picks up the thread of our conversation. “If some guy is still after your father for something that happened almost fifty years ago, what makes you think he’ll walk away five days after he finds him?”
It’s a good point that’s been nagging at me, as well. “I wish to hell Papa would close the damned blinds.”
Pat glances back at the expansive front-room window. With darkness falling and the living-room lights on, Papa and Ed are totally exposed to the street. Papa refuses to move the wall-mounted, fifty-five-inch television—“I no make more holes in the wall!”—and he isn’t about to rearrange the living-room furniture, which is placed exactly where Mama thought it should be. I think of the old guy looking inside as he wandered by. Anyone on the sidewalk has a front-row seat to whatever is going on in our living room.
“Yeah, they should close them,” Pat agrees as we watch them.
Papa’s eyes drift to the portrait of Mama that hangs on the wall between the front door and picture window. I often find my father sitting and gazing at Mama’s picture or the trinkets and mementos she scattered around the living room, occasionally doing so with her rosary beads in hand when he thinks no one is watching. He’s not a demonstrative man, but I know the loss of his wife of forty-seven years still tears at his heart every day he’s forced to live without her.
“He misses her, huh?” Pat asks.
“He sure does.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to leave the house and all those memories behind, even for a few days.”
I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe that has something to do with his determination to stay here. God, but grief is a complicated mess.
We watch a Cedar Heights PD cruiser approach and wave back to the pair of officers who lift their hands in greeting as they coast by. It’s a relief to know they’re coming by fairly regularly. Jake Plummer has warned us that the frequency of patrols will likely dwindle as the days pass.
Pat and I chat and watch every car that comes down the street as we wait. Liberty Street is two long blocks of post–World War II brick bungalows that end at Independence Park. Almost every lot features a stately old oak, elm, or ash tree that towers high overhead, creating a canopy above the street. Over the years, the mostly Italian immigrants who settled here have added flourishes to infuse both the bland tract houses and the neighborhood with splashes of personality.
Larose finally arrives at six-fifty, twenty minutes late. “Traffic was a bitch,” he informs us.
We chat for a minute before we’re distracted by the deep rumble of an approaching car. A muscular Carousel Red 1969 Pontiac GTO Judge eases to the curb in front of the house and parks behind Pat’s aging Hyundai Sonata. The GTO has been fully restored with twin hood scoops, fat Mickey Thompson street tires, and a functional rear spoiler. I know the details not because I know a damned thing about cars, but because Max had waxed poetic for fifteen minutes about what three years of detailed work in his backyard garage had wrought. I seldom hear him string more than five or six words together in a single go. It’s amusing and touching to see the guy get so emotional about having lovingly restored his father’s old wheels.
“That’ll be Max,” I announce as the car falls silent and the door pops open. Max climbs out and locks the door with a key. I guess they didn’t do power locks back in ’69.
“Nice wheels,” Larose says admiringly when Max trudges up the front steps.
“Thanks,” Max mutters as he eases into one of the two lawn chairs squeezed into the far corner of the porch. He plunks a thermos down next to the chair.
“You’re early,” I note.
“Even a grandfather can only take so much of screaming three-year-olds,” he grumbles, then adds with a sardonic grin, “so when Ed told me you were standing guard out here, I thought I’d best get my ass in gear.”
“Good call,” I say before giving his shoulder a squeeze. Then I lead Pat and Larose inside, meet Papa’s gaze, and tilt my head at the front window. “If you’re going to insist on watching TV with all the lights on at night, at least close the curtains. ”
Papa’s nostrils flare. “I like to see the outside.”
“You two look like a couple of ducks in a shooting gallery,” I retort.
Ed nods. “Point taken.”
Papa shoots a scowl Ed’s way.
“Thanks, Ed,” I say while closing the drapes. “Good to know one of you has a little common sense.”
Papa’s scowl swings to me before I turn away and lead my guests to the kitchen, where Larose, Pat, and I settle around the maple table. I pour myself a bourbon. My guests settle for soft drinks.
Larose gazes around at the hand-built ceiling cornices, doors, and doorframes, as well as the ceramic tile floor and countertop. “The village tried to condemn this place last year?” he asks in disbelief.
I nod. “Go figure, huh?”
“What’s the world coming to?”
Pat takes a pointed look at her watch. “Let’s get to it, guys. I’ve got thirty minutes, tops.”
“Did you get a chance to ask your clients about the stuff I mentioned?” Larose asks me.
He called
