Park Lane South, Queens

“You wouldn’t do it, Dad. You say so but you wouldn’t.”


“Ha. You watch. I’ll retire.”

“I’ve been wanting you to retire for five years,” Mary said. “That neighborhood is going to the devil. But you won’t retire. I know you.”

“Oh, yes, I will. Or I’ll look for a new store up in Kew Gardens. You watch.”

“And pay those rents?”

“The Jews are the only ones who can pay rent?”

“That rent? Yeah.”

Michaelaen losing interest, put his hand in his blue jeans where it felt good.

“Jesus! Mary,” Stan shouted at her, “can’t you stop him from doin’ that?!”

“Give him one a your cannons, Pop,” Zinnie narrowed her eyes. “Let him play with something more to the point.”





CHAPTER 4


The rain beat down on Aqueduct and steam rose from the muddy track. Pokey Ryan watched carefully as the boards recorded the latest bets. The lines up to the fluorescent-lit windows dwindled the closer it came to post time. A big jump came onto the board under number five. That was what he was waiting for. Pokey walked calmly out to the stands and whipped out his flashlight. Usually he positioned himself deeper in the portal but today it was so dark out that that wasn’t necessary. He gave it five healthy blasts.

Across the track and past the stables Johnny Benedetto shut the window, tossed his binoculars onto the bed, and picked up the phone. He ran a finger down the racing form. Number five. Number five. Here we go: Miss Know It All. He listened to the phone ring at the other end. “Eddie? Johnny. Can I still get in on the fourth race? Yeah? Gimmie Miss Know It All twenty times in the fourth. Got that? Good.” He hung up. Candy from a baby. He shook his head softly, put on his shoulder holster, and headed out the door.

“Here we are, your honor.” Claire relaxed the clothesline leash even more. Now they stood a good ten feet from each other on the top of the hill. Behind them and below was the still-slippery curve of Park Lane South. In front and below was the underwater green of the glittering woods. The storm had knocked down plenty of branches and left the whole place wild. Prettier than ever, the Mayor thought. A sunlit pandemonium. It wasn’t often that he came in these woods. Not since that last run-in with a rowdy pack of wild dogs. An honorable defeat, mind you, but not the sort one would like to repeat in the extreme near future. They wouldn’t give him any trouble with Claire about. They feared humans, didn’t they? A motley crew. He still could feel those scars. Especially right before a rain. That was why he’d come home so early this morning … and missed a good soaking. Good for something, those old wounds. Bad for others. Now they’d keep him on a leash. Infernal bother! However was he going to keep the neighborhood in order if he was kept indoors? Or attached to a human! She had her hulking camera with her, too. How were they going to have a good run with that thing clanging about her neck? Always stopping to take pictures of any tomfoolery!

“Look,” Claire came over and knelt down beside him. “I’m going to take you off your stupid clothesline, but I’m going to have to put it back on when we leave the woods, all right? You won’t just run off on me, will you? Good.”

She unhooked him from his irritating noose and scrubbed his back with her short nails. “C’mon,” she laughed. “We’re off.”

And off they did go—not quite as energetically as either of them had planned, however. Claire would stop for a shot here and there and he would halt for just about any gamey essence. They were an excellent running team, each equally short of breath at frequent, corresponding intervals. The European Jews were out now. And there were other joggers, thrilled to once again have fresh breathing air after the clean wash of rain. Claire didn’t like to take the main routes. The others looked so official that she was shy for them to see her not wearing what seemed to be the uniform: some sort of platypuslike tennis shoes and buoyant pastel-colored leotards. She and the Mayor kept to the thicket, colliding good-naturedly with nature as they bolted through. Each of them was lost in thought.

Now, what in glory goodness is that? The Mayor periscoped his dark snout upward, not understanding for the life of him why one of Stan’s more radiant symphonies should suddenly come up here and interrupt the birds’ song. It was, in fact, the dizzying strains of the “Skater’s Waltz.” The Mayor looked at Claire, but he couldn’t decipher that expression of joy and pain all at once.

Claire was captivated, transported momentarily back to Munich any Wednesday afternoon in the Englische Garten, the oompah-pah band in full swing, the sun in your eyes, and the bright yellow beer. Oh, yes. There were times when you remembered why you’d spent so many years there, after all. She smiled at the Mayor. “I think we’ve stumbled across the carousel,” she said.

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