“You talk about them like they’re new little folks who just moved into the neighborhood.”
Claire opened the refrigerator and idly watched its contents. Mary had a whole boat-load of ribs going on in there, soaking up something nice. That would be for tonight. There was a bowl of rhubarb. Hmm. A couple of fat, soggy leeks. A half a cantaloupe. Oh, no. A big hunk of Tilsit. She shut the door with self-preserving swiftness.
“How ’bout a little music?” suggested Zinnie, who shared her father’s passion for the stuff. Only her taste ran more to the Motown classics of the fifties and sixties. And whereas his were kept in an orderly file, hers were strewn about the house. She didn’t know where anything was, but she had all of them: the Temptations, the Supremes, Little Anthony and the Imperials, the Four Tops. She picked one up from behind the Mayor’s box and dusted it tenderly in a circle. “Here we go,” she blew on the needle and let it drop.
“Aaaa million to wa-un,” Zinnie sang along with the opening line, “—that’s what our folks think about this love of ow-ers.…”
Claire clapped her hands with delight. “You sound just like him,” she cried. “Really!” And it was true. Zinnie had it down. The only thing that stopped her from using her powerful, sweet voice more often at home was her own father’s embarrassingly rapt attention. Wherever he was on the property, if Zinnie would start to sing he would come rushing through the house and stand harrowingly still, and the next thing you knew his eyes would fill with tears. Zinnie didn’t go for that. That sort of stuff was for the birds.
“Smokey Robinson,” Zinnie rolled her eyes when the song came to an end. “Vintage class, doncha think?”
“Zinnie? How did you find out about that cufflink? You saw it when you saw the body?”
“Nope.”
“So how? You’ve been poking around at the 102, haven’t you?”
“Why not? What are you lighting up a cigarette for? I thought you were going to quit.”
“Cut down. No one ever said anything about quitting.”
“What are you? Worried I been talking to his royal piece of ass?”
“His who?”
“Miss innocent. You know who I’m talking about.”
“Oh. Him. Why would I care about him? You do mean the big arrogant one?”
“Ha. That’s funny. That’s exactly the way he described you: the little arrogant one. No, wait. He said the little snotty one.”
“I don’t care what he said.”
“Not much you don’t.” She leaned over the sill. “Boy. It’s really wailing out there. I hope Daddy brought Michaelaen indoors.” She opened the freezer, cracked the ice cube tray into the sink, and tinkled more ice into her glass. “You know what I think? I think he likes you.”
“Tch.”
“He was married, you know.”
Claire said nothing.
“Apparently, the lady didn’t let her right hand know what her left was up to. I mean, she screwed around.”
“Zinnie, I don’t care about Johnny Benedetto. Really! So stop speaking about him.”
“Yessir!”
They listened to the rain.
“Tell ya one thing, though. He’s a crackerjack detective. All sorts of commendations and sharpshooter medals. And he’s handy. He even fixed Furgueson’s old bomb of a car for him.”
“Here comes your son,” Claire picked the curtain up with her toe, “—followed by our soaking father.”
In they came, joyfully splattering water onto everything. The Mayor, quite recovered from his run-in with the law, greeted them in his effusive style. His alarming baritone went off at irritating three-second intervals, insisting they join him in the old sit-beg-give-take, tradition being the cornerstone of culture. Off he flew then with his Milk Bone, on a successful tournée of the dining room table legs. Back he gallivanted for a culminating snortle under one of Mary’s many scatter rugs. Crunchy scatter rugs.
Mary swept the bone bits up with a bored sigh and dumped them into his toy box. They could talk about the ticket later on. Stan looked tired and she didn’t want him worrying about the hundred dollars now.
“We wuz at the junkies!” Michaelaen shouted. “We sold the brass pipes and we got fireplace irons!”
“How enchanting,” Mary said. “What’s next? A fireplace?”
“Who’s minding the store, Pop?”
“Hank’s there. I been lettin him open up the last week or so. Get to spend some time with my grandson, right, pardner?”
“Right!”
“I thought you didn’t trust Hank.”
“Oh, he’s all right. He’s good with the Spanish customers. That hot tamale music doesn’t bother him.”
“Nuthin but spics on Jamaica Avenue, anymore,” Mary shook her head.
“Hispanics, Mary,” he glared at her. “Whatta you wanna do? Teach the kid here to be a racist?”
“You’re the one who always says you’re gonna sell out because of them!” Zinnie laughed.
“Whatever. I’m just waitin for the Koreans with a bag of cash. When they come in, I’m selling the business. You watch.”