“Hey, Mare!” “Hi, Mary!” “Buongiorno, Maria!” said his friends The Three Tonys, like a Greek—or more accurately Roman—chorus. They got up to greet her, rising slowly on replacement knees, like hammers on a piano with sticky keys. Her father had grown up with The Tonys; Tony “From-Down-The-Block” LoMonaco, “Pigeon” Tony Lucia, and Tony “Two Feet” Pensiera, which got shortened to “Feet,” so even his nickname had a nickname. It went without saying that naming traditions in South Philly were sui generis, which was Latin for completely insane. The Tonys went everywhere with her father and sometimes helped her on her cases, which was like having a secret weapon or a traveling nightmare.
“Good morning, Pop.” Mary reached her father and gave him a big hug. He smelled the way he always did, of hard soap from a morning shave and the mothballs that clung to his clothes. He and The Tonys were dressed in basically the same outfit—a white short-sleeved shirt, baggy Bermuda shorts, and black-socks-with-sandals—like a barbershop quartet gone horribly wrong.
“THANKS FOR SEEIN’ US, HONEY.” Her father hugged her back, and Mary loved the solidity of his chubby belly. She would move mountains for him, but it still wouldn’t be enough to thank him for being such a wonderful father. Both of her parents loved her to the marrow, though her mother could be as protective as a mother bear, if not a mother Tyrannosaurus rex.
“No problem.” Mary released him, but he looked away, which was unlike him. “You okay, Pop?”
“SURE, SURE.” Her father waved her off with an arthritic hand, but Mary was concerned. His eyes were a milky brown behind his bifocals, but troubled.
“What is it?”
“YOU’LL SEE. YOUR MOTHER SAYS HI.”
Just then Feet raised his slack arms, pulled Mary close to his chest, and hugged her so hard that he jostled his Mr. Potatohead glasses. He, too, seemed agitated, if affectionate. “Mare, thank you for making the time for us.”
“Of course, I’m happy to see you.”
“I appreciate it. You’re such a good kid.” Feet righted his thick trifocals, repaired with Scotch tape at one corner. His round eyes were hooded, his nose was bulbous, and he was completely bald, with worry lines that began at his eyebrows and looked more worried than usual.
“Mary!” Tony-From-Down-The-Block reached for her with typical vigor, the youngest of the group, at eighty-three. He worked out, doing a chair-exercise class at the senior center, and was dating again, as evidenced by his hair’s suspicious shade of reddish-brown, like oxblood shoe polish. He gave her a hug, and Mary breathed in his Paco Rabanne and BenGay, a surprisingly fragrant combination.
“Good to see you.” Mary let him go and moved on to hug Pigeon Tony, an Italian immigrant with a stringy neck, who not only raised homing pigeons but looked like one. Pigeon Tony was barely five feet tall and bird-thin, with a smooth bald head and round brown-black eyes divided by a nose shaped like a beak. In other words, adorable.
“Come stai, Maria?” Pigeon Tony released her with a sad smile, and Mary tried to remember her Italian.
“Va bene, grazie. E tu?”
“Cosi, cosi,” Pigeon Tony answered, though he’d never before said anything but bene. You didn’t have to speak Italian to know there was a problem, and Mary turned to address the foursome.
“So what’s going on, guys? How can I help you?”
“IT’S NOT ABOUT US,” her father answered gravely.
Feet nodded, downcast. “It’s about Simon.”
“Oh no, what’s up?” Mary loved Feet’s son Simon, who was her unofficial cousin, since The Tonys were her unofficial uncles.
“He’s not so good.”
“What’s the matter? Is it Rachel?” Mary felt a pang of fear. Simon’s wife Ellen died four years ago of an aneurysm, and Simon had become a single father of an infant, Rachel. When Rachel turned three, she was diagnosed with leukemia but was in remission.
“Simon will explain it. Oh, here he comes now!” Feet turned to the elevator just as the doors opened and Simon stepped out, looking around to orient himself.
“Hey, honey!” Mary called to him, hiding her dismay. He looked tired, with premature gray threaded through his dark curly hair, and though he had his father’s stocky build, he’d lost weight. His navy sport jacket hung on him and his jeans were too big. She hadn’t seen him in a while, since he was busy with Rachel, though they’d kept in touch by email.
“Hi, Mary!” Simon strode toward her, and Mary reached him with a hug, since she could only imagine what he’d been going through, not only with the baby, but losing Ellen. Mary herself had been widowed young, after the murder of her first husband Mike. Even though she was happily remarried, Mike was a part of her and always would be, which suited her and her new husband Anthony just fine.
“It’s so good to see you, honey.” Mary released him, and Simon brightened.
“This office is so nice, with your name on the sign.”
“Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are.” Mary could see Simon was happy for her and felt a new rush of affection for him. “How’s the baby?”
“I’ll fill you in later.” Simon’s smile stiffened. “I just moved her to CHOP.”
Mary wondered why Rachel had been moved, but it wasn’t the time to ask. CHOP was the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, one of the best in the country. Mary’s heart went out to him. “I’m praying for her, and so is my mother. She’s got the novenas on overdrive.”
“I know, and she sends me Mass cards, God bless her.” Simon’s smile returned. “I tell our rabbi, I’ll take all the help I can get.”
“Exactly. She prayed for me to make partner.”
“Ha! Anyway, thanks for seeing me on such short notice. Are you sure you have the time?”
“Totally. My first appointment isn’t until ten thirty.” Mary motioned him out of the reception area. “Let’s go to the conference room.”
“Okay.” Simon fell into step beside her, followed by her father, The Tonys, and the pastry box, which gave Mary pause. Simon was a potential client, and she wouldn’t ordinarily have a client consultation with an audience, blood-related or not.
“Simon, did you want to talk alone?” she asked him, stopping in the hallway. “What we say is confidential, and it’s your call whether your dad or anybody else comes in with us. They can wait in—”
Feet interrupted, “No, I wanna be there, Mare. I know what he’s gonna tell you, we all do.”
Tony-From-Down-The-Block snorted. “Of course we’ll be there. Feet’s his father, and I taught him how to ride a bike.”
“I CHANGED HIS DIAPERS!”
Mary looked over, skeptically. “When, Pop?”
“THAT ONE TIME, I FORGET.” Her father held up the pastry box by its cotton string. “PLUS I GOT BREAKFAST.”
Pigeon Tony kept his own counsel, his dark gaze darting from Simon to Mary, and she suspected that he understood more than he let on, regardless of the language.
Simon smiled crookedly. “Mary, you didn’t think we were going to shake them, did you? It’s okay. They can come with.”
“THIS WAY, I KNOW WHERE IT IS!” Her father lumbered off, down the hallway.
“Of course, we’re all going!” Feet said, at his heels. “We’re family. We’re all family!”
“Andiamo!” said Pigeon Tony.