But her fix-up squad hadn’t stopped with the trim.
Clemence’s porch was mustard, her window boxes cherry red. The latter housed knots of dead vegetation, the former a subset of Feeney’s flock.
Two girls painted their toenails on a second-floor fire escape. Both had short brown hair, heavy bangs, Capri pants, and enough pierced flesh to qualify for postsurgical coverage. Laverne and Shirley Go Punk. The duo suspended their pedicure to observe our approach.
The porch crew watched us from the steps, cigarettes tucked between fingers or hanging from mouths. Hairstyles included one Statue of Liberty, one Mr. T, two Sir Galahads, and a Janis Joplin. Though it was too dark to make out faces, all five looked like they were in preschool when the Berlin wall went down.
I noticed the statue nudge Mr. T. Mr. T commented, and everyone laughed.
No response.
“Howdy.” He tried English.
From inside, I heard the intermittent blare of the Sex Pistols, as though someone were turning the music on and off.
“We’re looking for Patrick Feeney.”
“Why?” Mr. T wore a leather vest over a hairless, naked chest.
“Pops win the lottery?”
“He’s been nominated for a Nobel,” said Ryan in a flat, humorless voice.
Mr. T pushed from the railing and stood with legs apart, shoulders back, thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans.
“Rouse the sleeping tiger,” said the statue, flicking ash onto the sidewalk. “Bad move.”
While Mr. T looked like he wanted action, the statue looked desperate for attention. His hair spikes were sprayed colors I couldn’t make out in the dark, and a chain looped from one nostril to its partner earlobe.
Ryan stepped forward and waggled his badge in Mr. T’s face.
“Patrick Feeney?” he repeated, his voice granite.
Mr. T dropped his hands, and the fingers curled into fists. Joplin reached up and wrapped an arm around his leg.
Ryan placed a foot on the lowest tread, and the group parted a millimeter. We wove our way up, careful to avoid stepping on fingers and toes. I felt ten eyes follow our progress.
A single red bulb glowed above the front door. Though the porch sagged badly, in the crimson light I could see fresh boards sandwiched among the old. Someone had turned the soil in a window planter, and a flat of marigolds lay to the side. Though Chez Tante Clemence would never win any design awards, a caring hand was clearly at work.
Clemence’s interior was in keeping with her public face. Lavender on the woodwork, crude murals on the walls. Animals. Flowers. Sunsets. The colors were those I remembered from the tempera paints of my lower school art classes. The furniture was Salvation Army, the linoleum different in every room.
Ryan and I crossed a front parlor containing several futon couches, passed a wooden staircase on the left, and entered a long, narrow corridor directly opposite the front of the house. Doors opened onto bedrooms on both sides, each with battered dressers and four to six single beds or cots. From one I could see the silver-blue shaft of a TV, and hear the theme music of
Halfway down the hall, we came to a kitchen. Beyond the kitchen, I could see a dining room on the left, two more bedrooms on the right.
Feeney was on his knees in the kitchen, helping a teenage imitation of Metallica dismantle or assemble a boom box.
Like African chameleons that turn green and sway to imitate leaves, youth counselors often take on the traits of their clients.
Denim, ponytails, Birkenstocks, boots. The camouflage helps them mix with the populace.
Not Feeney. With tortoiseshell glasses and thick white hair parted straight as a runway the man might have blended at a home for seniors. He wore a cable-knit cardigan, flannel shirt, and gray polyester pants hiked up to his armpits.
On hearing footsteps, Feeney turned.
“May I help you?”
Ryan flashed his badge.
“Detective Andrew Ryan.”
“I’m Patrick Feeney. I run the center.”
Feeney looked at me. Metallica did the same. I half expected the four of them to jam into “Die, Die My Darling” in high, cracky voices.
“Tempe Brennan.” I identified myself.
