“Oh, Lord, Zinnie, I wouldn’t even think of going in deep—”
“Not even on the rim, dammit! Don’t you hear what I’m saying?!”
“Okay, okay. I won’t go into the woods till all this blows over, all right, sheriff?”
“Promise!”
“I promise.”
Zinnie stood. “Now I really gotta go.”
“You going to stop in at the one-o-two?” Stan asked her.
“I can’t do that, Pop. You know that. My precinct’s in the city.”
“I know. I know. Just unofficially, I mean.”
“No. They’ve got a whole new staff over there. I don’t know anybody in there anymore, except Furgueson. It’s all new. And look. You keep Carmela’s nose out of this. You know, ‘Miss Reporter.’ That’s all we need is her poking her nose around up there and getting into trouble.”
“God forbid,” agreed Stan.
“So just don’t tell her about it. Let her hear Mom’s version.”
“Fine,” said Claire, feeling all at once as though Zinnie were the elder and she the younger.
Zinnie went to say goodbye to Michaelaen. Then she climbed into her gray Datsun. Claire and Stan sat silently and watched her drive away. The ceiling fan went slowly round and the sink faucet dripped.
“Pop?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, but early this morning, when I was out in the hammock, I saw this car drive by.”
“So?”
“No, I mean very early. Before the sun was quite up. An old Plymouth came down from the park.”
Stan’s eyes focused on her own. “You see the driver?”
“No, but I remember part of the license. I remember because it had three numbers from … well, three numbers or three other numbers. They were either Buddha’s estimated year of ascension or the year of his birth. I don’t know which of the two it was, now, because I went right back to sleep, but it was definitely either one or the other.”
“Jesus, Claire, which numbers??!”
“Well, it was either 563 or 473.”
“You’re sure?”
“I don’t remember which, but it was definitely one of those. I’m sure of that.”
“We’d better go over to the precinct.”
“Oh no, Dad, not me. I don’t want any part of detectives. You go. You tell them, all right? Don’t get me involved.”
“I understand.” He put his big hand on top of her small one. “I’ll go. And not a word to your mother. Tell her I just ran over to the store. Tell her I went to look in on how the new kid is doing and I’ll be back in half an hour. She’ll fall for it.”
“Pop?”
“Yuh?”
“Don’t bring any cops home, all right? I don’t want to go through it.” She stood on the back stoop and watched him until he was out of sight. When she turned to go back in the kitchen she could have sworn she saw Iris von Lillienfeld looking dead at her from a half-closed window across the street.
Michaelaen sat quietly on his bed. He listened. Grandma was down in the cellar putting in the laundry. Aunt Claire would not come walking in without knocking. He shook his head to himself. She acted like he was a grown-up. Michaelaen went into his closet bottom, carefully moved his folder of Spider Man stickers, and pulled out the tackle box Grandpa had given him for his very own. He carried the box back to the bed. For a moment he just sat there and held the box fondly. Then he blew on it. A nice powder of dust made a storm in the sunshine. He watched it settle on the wooden floor and then opened the box. There was Daddy’s fine school ring, safe and sound. There was the ivory elephant Aunt Claire had sent from India, the insect corpses he loved best, a magic blue jay feather, an abacus from Chinatown, and a cat’s eye marble. It was the best cat’s eye marble he had ever seen. Probably worth a lot of money. Ah, there it was. The cufflink. A genuine roulette wheel. He gave it a good spin and his eyes lit up to follow the golden ball round and around. Eleven. Red. He laughed out loud. It was a shame he couldn’t show it off. But he had sworn he’d never tell, right before Miguel had pressed it into his hand. That was the deal. He wouldn’t tell what they were up to, looking at those pictures and all, and Miguel would let him keep the cufflink. Only he must never tell. No matter what.
Johnny Benedetto parked the silver Triumph Stag on the hill behind the pizza place. It was still broiling at three PM. He loosened his tie and removed his jacket. A large big-jointed man, he never felt comfortable in a suit and there were days he forgot he wasn’t still wearing a uniform. Johnny took off his shoulder strap and slipped his gun into the Velcro holder in his sock. He needed a shave. His thick black hair curled onto his collar. The sharp hazel green eyes caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror. That was another thing. A haircut.