Park Lane South, Queens

The Mayor wasn’t having any of it. An organ concert in the woods, indeed.

“No, no, really, it’s all right,” she told him. “This must be the old carousel they’ve renovated. I read about it in the local paper. Look, fellow, come here and have a look. It’s all magnificent horses. Hand-carved. God. I remember this from when Michael and I were kids. We loved it here. We used to catch guppies over there before they drained the pond.”

The Mayor took one look at the whirling cavalry horses and the fancy pastel chargers. That was it. He turned to go.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be such a spoil sport. You hear? Now they’re playing the ‘Merry Widow Waltz.’ I can’t believe they actually renovated this place. When I left Queens it was a filthy haven for dealers and junkies. Whoever did this did a beautiful job. Jesus, it’s pretty. I’ve never seen such lavenders and subtle pinks and mossy greens like that on a carousel; they’re usually so garish. These are unbelievable.” Claire shot while she spoke to the Mayor, trying to calm him down with the sound of her voice just long enough for her to get something really good. There weren’t many kids, just a smattering of babies and tired parents, but no one could be unaffected by the beauty. The shining faces blurred and she put the camera down.

There was a guy looking at her, an older guy, maybe sixty or so. Maybe younger. It was hard to tell his age. He was either very blond or very white. His eyes were piercing and as pale a blue as Claire had ever seen. They almost weren’t there. The man lowered his monkey wrench and came out from the bowels of the machinery into the light. He was older than she’d thought. He continued to watch her. Always sensitive to people’s shyness at being photographed, she put her lens cap back on and dangled the camera across her shoulder.

In a thick German accent, he shouted something to another mechanic still working at the center of the gears. Claire didn’t catch what he said but the unfriendliness of his tone chilled her. She shivered and turned with the Mayor to go. There were also times when she remembered quite well why she had left Germany.

They hurried along. Claire hadn’t realized how far they’d come and she moved quickly, her shoulders brushing the overgrown plants. There was poison oak in here, she remembered, and poison ivy all over the place. The carousel had jarred all sorts of memories.

“Hello, there,” someone said and Claire whirled around, frightened. The murder was still fresh in everybody’s minds. It was a man. A good-looking man at that. He was tall, slightly older than she, and extremely thin. The Mayor, caught as unawares as she, bared his fine row of teeth (he’d always been criminally vain of those teeth) and Claire had to grab him by the tail before he lurched for the man.

“Sorry,” Claire smiled not too apologetically, “he’s very protective.”

“Good thing he is! This isn’t the safest place in the world anymore.” The man stared intently into the foliage. He, too, wore those trendy pastel togs.

Claire nodded sympathetically. What was that accent? “Czech?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

“Are you Czech?”

“Ah! No. Close, though. Polish.”

“Really!”

“You have a good ear. And you are … wait … let me guess … German?”

“I’m American, but I did live there for years.”

“Ah!” He was sweating, wiping his hands on a snow white handkerchief. “And now?”

“Right past Park Lane South. Directly on the wrong side of the tracks.”

He laughed and then frowned. “The Jamaica Avenue el?”

“No,” she rushed to assure him, reminding herself distressingly of Carmela, “—the other one. The trestle. The Long Island freight.”

“Oh, yes. That’s still very pretty there. Quaint.”

“Mmm. Lots of pigeons, though.”

“It’s lovely in here now, isn’t it? I like it so much better than Central Park. It’s really a virgin wood, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And there are stables,” he went on. “The horses are all nags, of course, but it’s great fun all the same. Do you ride?”

“Not lately.” Even the nags cost twenty bucks an hour.

“Do you jog every day? I’ve never seen you before.”

“You’ve caught us on our first day out, hasn’t he, your honor?”

The Mayor didn’t bother to look up. The idiot reeked of patchouli.

“What’s your name? May I ask you that?”

“Claire Breslinsky. And yours?”

“Stefan. Stefan Stefanovitch. I’m living just off the park myself.” He fell into step with them. “I’m sorry. Do you mind if I walk with you for a bit? I’m all in. Why do you laugh?”

“I’m just thinking of my sister. She’d kill me if she knew I was talking to a perfect stranger in the woods.”

“The proverbial protective older sister—”

“No, younger. But she’s a police officer.”

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