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Fathers and daughters, you know—it happens.”
    “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
    “But, anyhow, by the time we had Maria—that tells you something, you know, the mother naming her daughter after herself—by that time, that was pretty much it for the marriage. We lived together, went through the motions, but that’s all.”
    “Like almost everyone.”
    “Yeah.” Venezzio smiled, a thinning of his lips, no more. Never had Bacardo seen Venezzio really smile. Or laugh. It was, someone had once said, the secret of his success. If a man smiled, he could forgive. But Venezzio never forgave. Or forgot.
    “But you always had—” Bacardo pointed to Janice’s name in the notebook lying beside the transistor radio.
    In response, Venezzio nodded. “Yeah. Right. I always kept track of her—her and the little girl. And I have to say, speaking of fathers and daughters, I always liked it, being with the girl. She was someone to—you know—give presents to, take to Disneyland, like that.”
    “Sure.” Bacardo said it quietly, sympathetically. Then: “Did you ever go to that other one? Epcot Center?”
    “No.”
    “Amazing. Really amazing.”
    A short silence fell as they listened to Tony Bennett winding up “That Old Black Magic,” one of Bacardo’s favorites. Then Bacardo decided to ask, “So how’re they doing now?”
    “Well …” Venezzio pointed to Janice’s name. “She’s dead. She died about a year ago.” He spoke without inflection, without emotion. “She went out west, like I said. For a while—a few years—she did all right, she and Lou—she and the little girl. I took care of them, saw they had everything they needed. If I couldn’t make it, I’d send someone, make sure she was all right. I sent you, I remember, once or twice.”
    “Twice.”
    “Yeah. Twice. And for a while—years—she was all right. They had a nice house, and the little girl did fine in school and everything. You know—the way most people live, with white picket fences, and a garden, and bicycles on the lawn.
    “But then she started to drink—” Venezzio pointed to Janice’s name. “When she was a girl, her mother drank, and her father was never around. That’s why she left home, because her mother was a drinker. So then, Jesus, she starts drinking.”
    “That happens. It happens a lot. The parents are boozers, so are the kids.”
    “Yeah, well—” Venezzio gestured, an expression of helplessness, of futility. “Well, that’s what happened. She drank herself to death, ruined her liver.”
    “She seemed real nice,” Bacardo offered. “Always real—you know—cheerful, very friendly. Some women—beauties—they aren’t friendly. They figure they got the looks, that’s it.”
    Looking away, lost in memory, Venezzio made no reply.
    “Did she always have the house with the white picket fence?”
    “Always. She always kept it nice, too. And you’re right, she was always cheerful. Some people, you know, they get mean when they drink. Or else they start slobbering. Not her, though. Maybe she’d get a little loud, but that was all.”
    “What about the little girl? She’s thirty-five, you said. Is she married?”
    “She was married, with a child of her own. She’s been married twice. Once it was a divorce, and once her husband died. It was out in Los Angeles. She doesn’t live there now, but that’s where she lived when—” He left the rest of it unsaid. But a glance at Venezzio’s face revealed the rest of it: with a divorce behind her, and now widowed, Venezzio’s daughter was struggling, needed help.
    “What I’ve been doing,” Venezzio said, “I’ve been thinking about this. You understand what I’m saying?”
    Gravely, Bacardo nodded.
    Venezzio picked up the notebook, slipped it in his shirt pocket. He gestured to the radio, which Bacardo switched off.
    “What I want you to do,” Venezzio said, “is think about this too. I want you to figure out a plan, if something happens with my