“All right then,” said Emil. “Tell her I called. And I hope you’re all right.”
“I’ll write it down.” She heard the Mayor running down the hall and wondered where he was off to. “Good-bye,” she said, “and thanks.” Gingerly, she tried the light switch. It didn’t work. She pulled the radio out and let the water out of the tub. How easy it is, she thought to herself. You’re here one minute and gone the next. Just like that. She remembered Johnny. The best way to begin, she’d heard it said, was to start. All right. She’d give up procrastination for action. She toweled off hurriedly. Where to begin? Call? She had his address. Why not drive directly to his house? He lived in South Ozone Park, three or four miles away. It was still early in the afternoon. If he wasn’t there, she would leave a note. “You’ll come with me,” she said to the Mayor, who’d just come up the stairs. “Let me just go and look at that circuit breaker first. We’ll bring back the camera at the same time.” Johnny might even persuade her to keep it, she realized hopefully.
See that? remarked the Mayor to himself. She didn’t even miss me. Just as I’d suspected.
Claire’s heart leapt at the thought of keeping the camera. She’d be right back in business. She dressed quickly, with a light, happy heart. She dried her hair with Zinnie’s dryer and brazenly stole Carmela’s car.
Once you got past Liberty Avenue, Lefferts Boulevard was chock full of Indians. This didn’t bother Claire. She felt right at home. Purple and pink flower beds grew in whimsical tufts across the little front yards. They’d torn down all the German fir trees, the Indians, so they would have more light. Mighty sunflowers loomed with determined cheerfulness between the garbage pails. There was a wedding going on, the dark, plump bride just coming out of the rented white limousine. She wore a Western wedding gown and her bridesmaids their traditional saris. The young men stood about with shy, expectant, self-important gestures. “It’s good luck to see a bride,” Claire told the Mayor. He enjoyed a ride in a car, as long as they weren’t on their way to the vet.
On Rockaway Boulevard Claire turned right and drove through a visible cloud of gasoline fumes. She God blessed American shampoo with its vivacious redolence. Now they were in the Italian sector: pizza places, gas stations, hubcap specialty lots. She drove along putting rouge on in the rearview mirror. When she decided she looked all right, she made a left at the Aqua Motel and cruised down the row of blocks. She liked to drive. As soon as she could get her hands on some money, she’d buy herself a nice little used car. Here the houses were semiattached brick with geranium pots on perfect cement stoops. There were several grottos to the Virgin and one black-faced jockey, still carrying that years-ago burnt out white lantern. On the right side the houses’ backyards faced the racetrack and you looked right across the field to the distant bleachers. The last house on the last block was Johnny’s. It was just a plain old house, she reasoned, but even so, her blood pounded through her temples. He probably isn’t even home, she sniggered wildly to herself. She checked her purse to make sure she would have pen and paper handy for a note. If she had it, she calmed herself superstitiously, she wouldn’t need it. The Mayor leaned against her, panting reassuringly. His breath, she noticed, was atrocious.
Johnny’s lawn was parched and uncared for in this quarter of Italian husbandry. Prickled hoses spurted up and down the block. There were grape arbours and tomato plants in every backyard. Johnny seemed to be cultivating a bevy of Coke cans in his. And car skeletons. It looked more like a car cemetery than somebody’s home.
She parked the car in his driveway, then backed it out and parked parallel to the curb. No sense being presumptuous. With studied calm, she got out. The Mayor flinched at the low-flying 747 that roared darkly through the still-bright light. That’s what you got when you lived near the airport. A timid team, they climbed the steps. She pushed the bell. It chimed out the theme from The Godfather. Good Lord, she thought. She waited. She tried the knocker. Still nothing. What did she want with some slobby detective, anyway? she thought, taking in the rumpled pile of laundry in there on the porch floor. She turned to go. It was a good thing he wasn’t at home, she realized now. She wouldn’t even leave a note. “Look at this.” She heard a voice and her heart stood still. He was at the upstairs window, peering out of the screen. She could hardly see him but she knew he was scratching that furry chest.
“Hang on a second,” he said and she followed the Mayor back to the stoop. When he turned the lock and opened the door she forgot for a moment why she’d come. He looked like a film star. No shirt. Just a pair of navy blue sweatpants.