“Yeah, Barbara?” I was suddenly feeling weary and depressed.
“I’m really sorry putting the car there caused you trouble.”
“You had no way of knowing. Don’t worry about it. Where’s Kenny now?”
“I promised not to tell.”
“Barbara, it’s literally a matter of life and death. Please tell me.”
“I’m his wife. You can’t make me testify against him.”
“You’re his ex-wife, and we aren’t in a courtroom. If you’re happy he’s come back, more power to you. I mean that. Be happy. But for God’s sakes, Barbara, someone is trying to kill me, so tell me where he is.”
“They weren’t trying to kill you, Irene. They were after Kenny.”
I wasn’t getting anywhere. I decided to pick up a rather cruel cue stick and play dirty pool.
“Barbara, what would our mother say to do?”
I knew this would get to her. I prayed my mother would forgive me. After all, as Barbara and I used to say when we were children, she started it.
“I’ll think about it. What was that policeman’s name?”
“Detective Frank Harriman.”
“I’ll tell you what. If I see Kenny, I’ll tell him what happened to your window, and that you think they’re trying to kill you. I’ll ask him if it’s okay to tell you where he is.”
This idea did not seem likely to bear fruit. But it was obvious that if Mom couldn’t make her do it, I couldn’t begin to budge her out of this position.
“Okay, but please think about blood being thicker than water and all that. I need you, too, Barbara.”
That really confused her. “Where are you anyway? I just tried calling you at work and they said you wouldn’t be in today. Are you at home?”
“No, but you can leave a message on my machine or get in touch with me through Detective Harriman. I’m — I’m going to be moving around a lot. I’ll keep checking in with you, okay?”
“Okay,” she said uncertainly.
“I have to handle it this way, Barbara.”
“I know… Irene?”
“Yeah.”
“Is there going to be a funeral for O’Connor?”
I thought of the men with forceps and plastic bags, but shook it off.
“I guess that will be up to Kenny. But he’s probably too upset to deal with that right now.”
“I’d like to have — I don’t know — a wake or something for him.”
“He’d like that, I’m sure. We may have to wait awhile, though, because of the investigation.”
“Yeah, well, anyway, I don’t know how to give a wake, do you?”
Ah, the plight of second generation Irish-Americans — proud of the culture but not knowing near enough about it. Granddad would have known. Dad may have. We had never been to a wake.
“No, Barbara, but call Great Aunt Mary. She can tell you how.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s more to it than Chieftains’ records and a bunch of booze.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“I’m going to miss him.”
“Me too.”
“Oh, of course.”
Of course, I thought.
“Take care of yourself, Barbara.”
“You too, Irene.”
What an ungodly mess, I thought, as I hung up the phone.
I TOOK THE SPARE KEY from the envelope and watched the street from a window at the front of the house. No dark blue Lincolns or shiny red Corvettes. Still, I felt scared going out of the house.
I climbed into the Karmann Ghia and headed for the Thai section of town, feeling a craving for satay and pad Thai. But as I drove, I decided I should let Frank know what Barbara had said, and stopped at a phone booth to invite him to join me. I called his work number.
“Homicide,” said a deep male voice.
“Frank Harriman, please.”
I found myself watching the street while I waited for Frank to pick up the phone.
“Harriman.”
