Cast in Stone Read Free Page A

looooking for jew." He hesitated. "A wooooman."
He breathed. I was supposed to guess now.
    "Rebecca?"
I ventured.
    "A
beeg woooman. Muy . . . muy . . ."
    What
followed was a series of rough glottal noises, the origin and timbre
of which made me yearn for a hot shower. He sensed my impatience.
    "She
come back tree, four times, Finally I took a note from her. Tole her
I geev it to jew when jew get back. Eets on toppa de fridge."
    "Thanks
again Hector. Anything else?"
    "Jour
lawyer, he called me looking for jew. Said jew gave heem my nomber
for 'mergency. Two maybe tree days ago. And"—favoring his
flair for the dramatic, he let it hang ominously—"a couple of
dose bums of jours was around. The one wid da wood coat and the real
dumb one. Jew got to keep dem away from here, Leo. The odder tenants
dey go batshit eberytime dey see dose guys. De Harrisons, in 4C, dose
fokkers, dey called the corporation and beetched. You tell 'em to
stay away, okay, Leo?"
    "I'll
tell them again, Hector. Sorry about that."
    Hector
was referring to what I affectionately call "the Boys."
When I need a couple pairs of extra ears or eyes, I hire the Boys.
Rebecca occasionally groused that referring to a group of grown men,
none of whom was under sixty, as the Boys was a slur, but I knew
better. The Boys didn't mind. In one capacity or another, they'd all
known my old man and, as such, had been counted among my many
"uncles."
    Twelve
terms on the city council had ensured that my old man was among the
city's most well-known characters. Three half-hearted runs at the
mayor's office, particularly the one when, clad in a red tuxedo, he'd
campaigned from atop a spewing beer wagon, had lifted his status to
legend. Through it all, however, he'd never lost the common
touch. He never forgot his old friends—that collection of drunks
and reprobates he'd started out with down on the mud flats,
those who sobered up every four years or so for just long enough to
vote for him again. Wild Bill Waterman always kept a place in
his heart and a little cash in his pocket for a guy who was down on
his luck.
    Among
my most cherished memories are those of being awakened late at night
by muffled conversation and laughter, of sneaking down the back
stairs that led to the kitchen, my mother's threats humming in my
ears, of finding ragged, red-faced men who smelled of dust and
desperation sitting around our kitchen table, dripping water on the
black-and-white tile floor, dipping snuff and sipping whiskey. Even
then they'd been relegated to the back kitchen. Unlike my father, my
mother took her social position quite seriously and had, in stages,
eventually banned these so-called "uncles" from her house.
    The
Boys were the last remnants of another era, my last tie to my old
man. When sober, they made excellent operatives. The old and poor are
invisible. They can hang around forever without attracting attention.
They operate inside their own little force fields, which direct the
regular citizenry away from them like incompatible magnetic poles.
    Of
the originals, only George, Harold, and Ralph were still around.
Buddy Knox had gotten himself killed on what I'd foolishly presumed
was a routine surveillance. I was resigned that guilt was a major
reason why I always tried to keep the Boys busy, even when I didn't
particularly need the help.
    To
everyone's amazement, Buddy had left the other three enough of an
insurance settlement for them to put a down payment on the rooming
house in which
    they'd
all shared a single, large room. Combined, their meager pensions
provided just enough cash to pay for booze and utilities. No problem.
They took up the slack with a combination of money they made working
for me, panhandling, and an artful collection of insurance scams.
    Since
Buddy's death, they'd used the house as a makeshift shelter for the
homeless. Neither their neighbors on Franklin nor the authorities
were amused. Faced with a withering volley of suits and injunctions,
the Boys had