“Dad, remember Grandpop?”
He nodded, his eyes closed.
“Remember what he called his cataracts?”
He smiled weakly.
“Cadillacs. He had Cadillacs in his eyes.” I laughed.
“My father, his English wasn’t that bad,” he said, his voice raspy, untested.
“Not that bad? Dad, come on, his English was nonexistent.”
“He knew Cinemascope.”
“True, he could say Cinemascope.” My grandfather had learned the word from watching old movies. The same word, in white letters that got blockier as they stretched to the edge of the screen. He’d marveled at the word, all the time on the TV, and therefore very important. “Cinemascope. It’s a good word. Not exactly a useful word, but a good word.”
He smiled with his eyes closed.
“How do you feel, Dad?”
“You asked me already.”
“So?”
“About fifty times.”
“Okay, so I won’t ask you anymore, Mr. Fresh.”
His smile faded and he squeezed my hand. He didn’t say anything for a long time, but the force of his grip showed me he hadn’t fallen back asleep. Finally, he said, his eyes still closed, “LeVonne.”
It cut inside. I didn’t know what to say, how to tell him. I decided to say the words. “He’s dead.”
He turned away. “I know. I was there.”
God. I didn’t say anything, just held on to his hand.
“He was at the counter. I was in back, in the kitchen. I heard shouting.”
“I know, Dad.”
“He tried to give him the money, but he killed him anyway. I always told him, give ’em the money. I thought that would save him.”
There had been twenty-seven dollars in the cash register, the police had said.
“So I called to him, I yelled, and I come out with the spatula. He yells out, tells me not to come, and then this white kid, he shoots him. One shot. Two shots. I’m out, but I got nuthin’ but the spatula.” His voice grew fainter, almost to a whisper. “A spatula, Rita. Then the kid, he shot me. Just like that.”
“I know, Dad. I know.” I rubbed his hand and arm.
He didn’t say anything for a minute and I knew he was trying not to cry. “LeVonne, he didn’t call me in. He wanted to save my life, Rita.”
“Dad, wait. You don’t know that.”
He turned and his watery gaze pierced into mine. “I know that boy. He didn’t call me in the front for a reason.”
“But what could you have done if he called you?”
His mouth opened slightly, his lips dry. It seemed to confound him. “I coulda done something. I coulda been there.”
“It’s all right, Dad.”
He raked a hand over his bald head and the IV tube rustled. He looked confused suddenly. Disoriented. “I couldn’t do anything for him. I wanted to help him. The blood. I couldn’t.”
“Nobody could, Dad. Nobody could save him.”
“I tried. I couldn’t do a goddamn thing. I got to him, I made it to him. Know what he called me, Rita?”
“What?”
His hand was atop his head like a madman. His eyes filled with tears. “Dad,” he said, his voice cracking. “He called me ‘Dad.’”
Then his sobs broke free.
16
I got out of the shower and answered the telephone dripping wet, because I was worried it was the hospital calling. It wasn’t.
“It’s Jake,” said the voice.
“Who?”
“Tobin? Remember? Your partner?”
“Oh, yeah. The ponytail.”
He laughed. “I hear you need me.”
“Why? I got my own ponytail.”
“You’re walking into a preliminary hearing, aren’t you?”
Christ. The furthest thing from my mind. I patted my face with a corner of my towel. “I guess.”
“Criminal homicide ring a bell?”
“Sounds familiar.”
“Murder of the first degree? Intentionally causing the death of another human being? And a total fox at that?”
“Like that makes a difference?”
“Not to you maybe. The newspapers are calling you a superlawyer. An experienced criminal advocate. They know something I don’t?”
“I memorized the Crimes Code in the hospital.”
“You studied? For a murder case?”
It could happen. “What are you calling for, Tobin? I’ve got things to do.” I dripped onto the rug, but I’d be damned if I’d tell him I was wearing a washcloth.
“The preliminary hearing is Friday,” he said.
“What? That’s tomorrow! I thought I had ten days!”
“No, the hearing is held between three and ten days. They’re pressing this one, they must think their case is strong. With the media howling, the pressure is on-”
“Wait a minute. How do you know when the hearing is?”
“The notice.”
“A notice came to you?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, except for a slight crunching noise. “Mack asked me to watch your desk, okay? He said you might need a hand.”
“You read my mail?”
“I was trying to help.”
“I don’t need help. And don’t open my mail for me. That’s what my secretary is for.”
“Oh, is that it? I was wondering.” There was a crunching sound again.
“What are you doing?”
“Eating breakfast.”
“Well, it’s rude.”
