said.
“I’d say so too, but Butch is working.”
Butch was Pete’s new partner, a hard case and a headcase from Chicago who I’d had more than a few tussles with. He’d actually tried to pin a few murders on me not so long ago and kidnapped Ray, the former Pinkerton and PI I worked for at the time.
“Maybe he and Pete ain’t partnered up no more.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“What now?” he asked.
W e drove to Pete’s place, a small clapboard house he rented on East Avenue in Millville.
Along the way, we passed house after house with blue star flags in the windows, signifying a family member, most likely a husband or son, was serving in the war. It was astounding how many members of our community were missing from among us, fighting, in part at least, for the homes the flags were displayed in. Other windows in other houses held gold stars, which unlike those the Nazi’s made the Jews wear, were a symbol of pride and honor, a recognition that the person serving and the family he left behind had made the ultimate sacrifice.
A car I didn’t recognize, a big black Packard, was parked on the side of Pete’s in the yard, and I wondered if the confirmed bachelor finally got himself a girl.
It took me a while to walk the short distance from the car to the small front porch. When I finally arrived at the screen door after easing up the stairs, I kicked it a couple of times on the wood frame at the bottom, something I found easier and less painful than lifting my arm to knock.
“Hey fella, how about not kicking my door down,” a middle-aged man in gray grime-smeared coveralls said. “Oh,” he added, when he saw I was missing an arm, “sorry, soldier. What can I do for you?”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“
Who am I
? You serious? I’m the guy whose porch you’re standing on. Who are
you
?”
Everything about him said grease. He smelled strongly of it, and it could be seen both on his clothes and under his nails. His dark-complected skin had an unwashed, greasy quality to it, and his slicked-back hair, which was as black as his work boots, was wet with it.
“I’m the guy looking for Pete Mitchell.”
“Who?”
“The guy renting this porch and the house it’s attached to.”
“That’s me,” he said.
“What’s you?”
“I’m not what’s his name … Pete, but I
am
the poor sap renting this shack.”
“Since when?”
“Since the check cleared, pal. What’s this about?”
“You know anything about the man that was here before you?”
“Yeah, soldier, I know stuff. He’s clean, tidy, and generous.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Place was clean and tidy.”
“No, the generous part.”
“Because,” he said, “he left me most of his stuff, mister. Whatta you call it?”
Chapter 6
F ar more a reflection of her husband and his place in the ruling class of our community, Lauren’s grave resembled not at all the woman it was meant to memorialize.
The double marble marker was huge and gaudy with two enormous sculpted hearts tilted toward one another beneath the imposing bold block LEWIS. Lauren Grace was chiseled into the left heart above the cold, cruel dates 1917-1943. Across from hers, in the right heart, Hieronymus Gerald was carved above the single date 1877, and centered beneath them both was Married May 14, 1939.
I had come to mourn, to attempt to connect to Lauren somewhere besides my dreams, but Harry had made it impossible. He had imprisoned her within his pride and possessiveness in death even more than he had in life.
I had left Clip in the car, but there was no need. There was nothing here for me, nothing that required solitude, silence, or privacy.
I wondered if he somehow realized that too when I sensed someone behind me, but as I turned saw Father Keller, a priest at St. Dominic’s, Lauren’s priest at the end, standing there, his bright blue eyes moist and sad.
Like Harry, he was old enough to be her dad, his darkish wavy hair beginning to go gray,
“I’d say so too, but Butch is working.”
Butch was Pete’s new partner, a hard case and a headcase from Chicago who I’d had more than a few tussles with. He’d actually tried to pin a few murders on me not so long ago and kidnapped Ray, the former Pinkerton and PI I worked for at the time.
“Maybe he and Pete ain’t partnered up no more.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“What now?” he asked.
W e drove to Pete’s place, a small clapboard house he rented on East Avenue in Millville.
Along the way, we passed house after house with blue star flags in the windows, signifying a family member, most likely a husband or son, was serving in the war. It was astounding how many members of our community were missing from among us, fighting, in part at least, for the homes the flags were displayed in. Other windows in other houses held gold stars, which unlike those the Nazi’s made the Jews wear, were a symbol of pride and honor, a recognition that the person serving and the family he left behind had made the ultimate sacrifice.
A car I didn’t recognize, a big black Packard, was parked on the side of Pete’s in the yard, and I wondered if the confirmed bachelor finally got himself a girl.
It took me a while to walk the short distance from the car to the small front porch. When I finally arrived at the screen door after easing up the stairs, I kicked it a couple of times on the wood frame at the bottom, something I found easier and less painful than lifting my arm to knock.
“Hey fella, how about not kicking my door down,” a middle-aged man in gray grime-smeared coveralls said. “Oh,” he added, when he saw I was missing an arm, “sorry, soldier. What can I do for you?”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“
Who am I
? You serious? I’m the guy whose porch you’re standing on. Who are
you
?”
Everything about him said grease. He smelled strongly of it, and it could be seen both on his clothes and under his nails. His dark-complected skin had an unwashed, greasy quality to it, and his slicked-back hair, which was as black as his work boots, was wet with it.
“I’m the guy looking for Pete Mitchell.”
“Who?”
“The guy renting this porch and the house it’s attached to.”
“That’s me,” he said.
“What’s you?”
“I’m not what’s his name … Pete, but I
am
the poor sap renting this shack.”
“Since when?”
“Since the check cleared, pal. What’s this about?”
“You know anything about the man that was here before you?”
“Yeah, soldier, I know stuff. He’s clean, tidy, and generous.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Place was clean and tidy.”
“No, the generous part.”
“Because,” he said, “he left me most of his stuff, mister. Whatta you call it?”
Chapter 6
F ar more a reflection of her husband and his place in the ruling class of our community, Lauren’s grave resembled not at all the woman it was meant to memorialize.
The double marble marker was huge and gaudy with two enormous sculpted hearts tilted toward one another beneath the imposing bold block LEWIS. Lauren Grace was chiseled into the left heart above the cold, cruel dates 1917-1943. Across from hers, in the right heart, Hieronymus Gerald was carved above the single date 1877, and centered beneath them both was Married May 14, 1939.
I had come to mourn, to attempt to connect to Lauren somewhere besides my dreams, but Harry had made it impossible. He had imprisoned her within his pride and possessiveness in death even more than he had in life.
I had left Clip in the car, but there was no need. There was nothing here for me, nothing that required solitude, silence, or privacy.
I wondered if he somehow realized that too when I sensed someone behind me, but as I turned saw Father Keller, a priest at St. Dominic’s, Lauren’s priest at the end, standing there, his bright blue eyes moist and sad.
Like Harry, he was old enough to be her dad, his darkish wavy hair beginning to go gray,
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