“It would give me a chance to see the old place and pay my respects,” Solly said.
“I’m just warning you, it’s not gonna be a turkey with mashed potatoes and peas,” Angelo said. “We’re Italian.”
Williams turned to Solly. “We better hit the showers. Then you gotta wrap my ankle good and tight, Weinberg. We’ve got ourselves a date.”
“Solly,” Solly said. “My friends call me Solly.”
“And I’m Angelo,” Angelo said. “By the way.”
The three of them were in fine spirits as they made their way past all the caffès and trattorias and butcher shops of the North End. They even stuck a dollar onto a statue of Sant’Angelo being paraded down Hanover Street to celebrate the feast day. Williams said it reminded him of Mexico.
Angelo’s heart sank, though, when he led the two ballplayers into Hangmen Court. Mama was out on the front stoop of No. 13, arguing with Cyril the Squirrel again. (She called her mortgage collector that behind his back because he was short, had fat cheeks, and was always scolding her.) As usual, Cyril the Squirrel was demanding that Mama make her loan payment—it was well past the first of the month. And as usual, Mama was reminding him her boarders didn’t pay her until the end of the week. To make matters worse, Cyril’s spoiled and stuck-up son, Benny, was watching the whole thing from a limb of the oak in the center of the court.
“Most of the neighborhood is behind on their payments!” Mama shouted. “Why are you always picking on me?”
“Watch your tongue,” Cyril said. “Or I’ll head straight back to the bank, write out an eviction notice, and serve it on you first thing in the morning!”
Mama raised her broom and warned Cyril he’d better beat it or she’d add another lump to his ugly skull. Cyril saw that she was serious and backed away. He called to Benny to climb down from the tree. Together they strode past Angelo and the ballplayers, who were wearing their caps in spite of their street clothes. Benny’s eyes bugged out when he recognized Williams. Angelo thoroughly enjoyed asking Mama, well within Benny’s earshot, if the two Red Sox could join his birthday dinner.
Solly reminded Mama who he was. To Angelo’s surprise, she threw her arms around his neck and gave him a big kiss hello. Williams introduced himself, apologizing for turning up at dinner empty-handed. Don’t be silly, Mama said, ushering him up the stoop. His timing was perfect. She was just about to set out the antipasti.
What followed was hands down the best birthday dinner of Angelo’s life—a real feast for the Feast of Saint Angelo: clams in breadcrumbs (which Solly passed on because he kept kosher), marinated artichokes, and tomato salad for starters; spaghetti in red sauce for the pasta course; roast lamb with rosemary potatoes for the main; and then a large garden salad to finish off. Just when Angelo thought he couldn’t eat another bite, Mama pulled a gigantic tiramisu out of the dumbwaiter and lit a sparkler. Antonio DiMarco, the new guy on the third floor, began a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday.” All the boarders and both ballplayers joined in. After everyone clapped, Mama began serving scoops of the tiramisu into bowls and handing them around. Angelo explained to the ballplayers that it was a classic Italian dessert, somewhere in between cake and pudding. Williams grinned when he tasted it. He said it reminded him of his Mexican grandmother’s capirotada.
Over second helpings, Solly reminded Mama that his mother had had similar run-ins with Cyril’s father, Chester. In fact, Solly personally blamed Chester for ruining his own thirteenth birthday. He would never forget that day as long as he lived—January 15, 1919—on account of this house, a rusty old tank of molasses, and an Irish guy named Finn McGinley. Solly glanced over at Angelo. But he’d have to save that story for another time, he said, when it was just the grown-ups at the table.
Angelo didn’t get the chance to ask why. A commotion was brewing outside on the sidewalk. The press! They had obviously caught wind of Cronin’s dugout fight with Williams and been tipped off to his whereabouts. Williams refused to budge from the table. He just asked for more dessert. And Solly helped Mama clear the dishes to the kitchen. But Angelo could plainly hear the newspapermen arguing among themselves: Even without Williams this afternoon, the Sox had managed to win against Detroit, 8–3. And the Yankees had lost against Cleveland, 2–1. The Sox were now in first place. Would Ted return to Fenway tomorrow to save the series to help the Sox win their final game against Detroit, thus sealing the Yankees’ fate?
A cab screeched up. The driver climbed out, smiled for a photo, then rapped on the front door. He had an important message for Ted Williams, he said, waving an envelope in the air. He had been ordered not to leave until Williams got in the cab. Angelo went to the door. He told the cabbie to slide the message through the letter slot. The white envelope plopped onto the welcome mat. When Angelo brought it over to Williams, he tore it open and read what was scrawled on a single sheet of Fenway stationery. He was being summoned to an emergency meeting with Cronin, Collins, and Yawkey back at Fenway. According to Williams’s contract, it would cost him a thousand dollars for every game he refused to play.
Solly collected both his and Williams’s ball caps from the rack in the front hallway. He pulled a tiny scroll from behind the 27 embroidered on the inside brim of his own. He said he’d been carrying it around with him for protection since he was a boy. He took a pinch of sugar from the bowl on the table and sprinkled it over the scroll’s Hebrew characters, whispering a prayer. He did this a total of nine times, counting out loud each time he started over. When he was finished, he tucked the scroll behind the 9 of Williams’s brim and handed the cap over. Williams should touch the brim each time he was at bat, Solly said, for protection against his foes. And now Williams should climb into that cab and take it back to Fenway.
Williams stood his ground. Cronin’s note did not contain an apology to Solly. No apology, no deal. Solly advised Williams to skip it. Solly had known since he was a kid that he wouldn’t have much of a ball career—never mind why—and his chances of joining the Sox’s starting lineup had anyway disappeared the minute he’d opened his “uppity Jew-boy benchwarmer big mouth” to Cronin back in the dugout. Solly turned to Angelo. “But it’s all been worth it,” he said, “to get the chance to celebrate your thirteenth birthday with you.” He ripped the 27 off the sleeve of his jersey and placed the embroidered patch in Angelo’s hand. He gave Mama a rib-cracking hug good-bye. She asked him if he was sure about what they had discussed while stacking dishes in the kitchen. He said he’d never been surer of anything in his life. Williams asked where Solly was headed. Solly said he didn’t know—California maybe? He’d never been there. With that, he shook Williams’s hand and ambled out the door.
Williams turned to Angelo. “What would you do if you were me?”
Angelo thought it over. “Play,” he said. “I’d put some ice on that ankle tonight, wrap it good and tight, then play tomorrow. I’d play like I’ve never played before—not for Cronin, or Collins, or Yawkey. Not for the Boston papers or the Fenway fans. I’d play for Saul, and for Solomon.”
Williams nodded. He stood. He thanked Angelo’s mother for dinner. Then he turned to Angelo and made him promise always to fight for what was right. He placed his cap on Angelo’s head and wished him a happy birthday. Without speaking another word, he opened the front door and, parting the crowd of reporters at the bottom of the front stoop with his silence, climbed into the waiting cab.
h my God,” Tony whispered. “You’re telling the truth.” Because there was no denying it: this kid’s story matched, word for word, the one Zio Angelo had told him at Thanksgiving. “But why aren’t you haunting me as an old man?”
“Haunting you?” Angelo said. “I don’t even know you.”
“Well, what were you doing in my bed, then?” Tony said.
“Heck if I know!” Angelo said. “After I finished helping Mama do the dishes, I came up here, to my room, to try Ted Williams’s cap on in front of the mirror. It was miles too big. So I turned on my new portable
radio—Mama’s other birthday present to me besides the quilt—and made a couple of adjustments to the brim while I listened to the nightly news.”
“And?” Tony said.
“It’s true, Lou Gehrig has some sort of disease they don’t know how to cure,” Angelo said. “Hitler is cheesed off with Britain for guaranteeing to protect Poland. The World’s Fair opened in New York to record attendance. Oh yeah, and DC gave the Batman his own comic book.”
“No,” Tony said. “I meant: And then what did you do?”
“Oh,” Angelo said. “I gave Williams’s cap the place of honor on the shelf above the bookcase. I turned off the radio. I changed into my pajamas. I climbed into bed. Next thing I knew, I was waking up beside you.”
“So you don’t want to be avenged?” Tony said.
“For what?” Angelo said.
“For your sudden and mysterious death,” Tony said.
“I’m not dead,” Angelo said. “Obviously.”
They were interrupted by a gentle knock at the bedroom door. “Rise and shine,” Michael said from the other side.
“I’m awake,” Tony called out.
“Yeah, well I’m not so sure I am,” Angelo said. “None of this makes any sense.”
“Can I come in?” Michael said.
“Just a sec,” Tony said. “Quick!” he whispered to Angelo. “Get under the bed.”
“Why?” Angelo said.
“My dad’s at the door,” Tony said.
“I don’t hear anybody,” Angelo said.
“Just do it!” Tony said. “Until we figure out what’s going on.”
Reluctantly, Angelo climbed under the bed.
Tony let Michael into the room.
“Just thought I’d come up and see how your first night went,” Michael said.
“OK, I guess,” Tony said. He sat on the edge of the mattress to block his dad’s view of who—or what—was under it.
Michael peered around the room. “See? I told you it would feel completely different up here with your own stuff.” He wandered over to the shelf above the bookcase and pulled the cap off the spiral. He tugged at a loose stitch on the B. “Remind me to get this appraised,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be cool if it really was Ted Williams’s first cap with the Sox?”
The sound of a doorbell echoed up the stairwell.
“Maybe that’s the cable guy,” Michael said, making his way over to the bed. “He promised he’d be here bright and early.” He placed the cap on Tony’s head, then tugged the bill over his eyes. “Get dressed. We’ve got a big day ahead, you and me. First we’re taking ourselves out to breakfast. Then we’ve got some history mysteries to solve.” The bell rang again, followed by someone pounding at the door. “Better get that before he wakes up the whole house,” Michael said. He strolled out and made his way downstairs.
Tony pulled the cap off his head. He hung it on the brass knob topping the bedpost. He ducked his head under the bed to tell Angelo the coast was clear.
Angelo was gone.
Tony glanced around the room. No closet to hide in, no armoire to duck behind, no balcony or fire escape to crouch on. He wandered over to the slate shelf. He placed his finger in the center of the spiral. Nothing. No static hum. No echo of voices. Angelo had just plain vanished. Tony pulled on a pair of jeans and a polo shirt. Was it possible he had imagined the whole thing?
It wasn’t the cable guy. It was the police.
Two plainclothes detectives. One of them was leading Michael by the arm down the stoop to a car parked at the curb. Tony stood frozen in the doorway, utterly speechless. No way, he thought. This can’t be happening. And yet it was.
“What’s going on here?”
Julia emerged from the door beneath the stoop, still dressed in her bathrobe and clutching a pot of coffee.
“We’re taking this suspect, Michelangelo DiMarco, down to the station for questioning,” said the first detective.
“Suspect for what?” Julia said.
“For the possible murder of his uncle, Angelo DiMarco,” said the other detective.
“But that’s completely crazy!” Julia said.
“Yeah, he’s totally innocent!” Tony said. But he couldn’t stop himself from glancing up at Old Man Hagmann’s window. Oh great. There he was, standing right behind his lace curtains watching the whole thing.
“Don’t worry,” Michael said. “All of the so-called allegations against me are nothing but a series of unrelated coincidences. I can explain away every single one.”
“That would be advisable,” the first detective said.
“What allegations?” Julia said.
“I’m sure it’ll all be cleared up by lunchtime,” Michael said.
“Don’t say anything!” Tony said. “Not without a lawyer present!”
The second detective told Julia that she should, in fact, contact a lawyer.
“But we just moved to Boston,” Julia said. “We don’t know any lawyers!”
“Call Birnbaum,” Michael advised Julia. “The guy who drew up Zio Angelo’s will. His card is in my briefcase.” He turned to Tony. “Do me a favor? Don’t mention any of this to the twins. No need to go upsetting them for nothing.”
“But it’s not nothing!” Julia said.
“Of course it is,” Michael said. “And we’ll all have a good laugh about it when I get back from the station.”
“But it’s not funny!” Julia said.
“This way, please,” said the first detective. He opened the back door of the cruiser. His partner settled Michael into the caged backseat. They both climbed into the front, and the car roared away from the curb with tires screeching.
“Oh my God!” Julia said, clamping her hand over her mouth. She turned to Tony. “You don’t think—?”
Tony glanced next door. Old Man Hagmann had vanished. Suddenly he was absolutely one hundred percent certain. “Are you kidding? Dad’s a vegetarian Buddhist, for God’s sake. He doesn’t believe in killing flies. He won’t even wear a leather belt. They’ve totally got the wrong guy.”
“You’re right,” Julia said. “Sorry. I’m just a little freaked out.”
“That makes two of us!” Tony said.
They just stood there.
“So what are we going to do?” Julia said.
“Get that lawyer on the phone,” Tony said.
Julia flipped her cell phone shut. “Birnbaum is pretty sure the next-door neighbor called the cops,” she told Tony.
They were both down in the kitchen.
“I figured,” Tony said.
“Mr. Hagmann was apparently at the reading of Zio Angelo’s will. He got really upset. He started making all sorts of wild accusations.”
“So what did the lawyer say about Dad?”
“Birnbaum’s headed over to the station now,” Julia said. “He told me to sit tight by the phone until I hear from him.”
The twins wandered into the room in sweatpants and T-shirts, looking like they’d just rolled out of bed.
“I guess we’re not going running this morning,” Mikey said, yawning.
“Who was at the door?” Angey asked. “I thought I heard voices outside.”
Julia just stared at him, at a loss for words.
“Cable guy,” Tony said.
“So where is he?” Angey said.
“He didn’t have enough cable to wire the whole place,” Tony said. “He went back to the shop for more.”
“Better be coming back,” Mikey said. “It’ll be a long summer without HBO.”
“Where’s Dad?” Angey said.
Silence. Julia was still a deer in the headlights.
“He had to swing by the lawyer’s to sign some papers,” Tony said.
“I thought he was taking you on that history mystery thing?” Angey said.
Not anymore.
“I’d totally dog that too, if I were Dad,” Mikey said. “Bor-ring.”
Julia finally recovered. “Tony’s meeting him at the Paul
Revere House, where the tour starts. Which is why I’d better get making some pancakes. Meantime, the two of you should put on some old clothes. As soon as we’ve eaten, I need you to help me move all the furniture in the mother-in-law room out onto the back deck so we can pull up the linoleum. I want to start sanding the hardwood floors.”
“Suddenly history mysteries aren’t sounding so bad,” Mikey said. He grabbed two bananas out of the fruit bowl on the counter. He handed Angey one of them. They headed back upstairs.
“Sorry,” Julia said to Tony. “It’s all I could think of at the spur of the moment. But now I guess you’ll have to go on the tour.”
“Not with Dad in jail!” Tony said.
“He’s not in jail,” Julia said. “He’s at the jail, just for questioning. Anyway, there’s nothing either of us can do until we hear from Birnbaum. We both have to believe your father is right: that everything’ll be cleared up by lunch. The only way we’re going to prevent ourselves from going out of our minds is by getting on with the day, as planned.”
“But I couldn’t even think about solving a bunch of lame history mysteries at a time like this,” Tony said.
“Try,” Julia said. “For my sake. If we ever needed a detective in the family, it’s now.”
ony headed straight next door to No. 15.
Well, not straight next door. First he pretended to eat breakfast with Julia and the twins. He could force down only about a pancake and a half, though, before he shoved his plate aside and declared himself late for his rendezvous with Michael over at the Revere House. He reassured Julia he would be on his new cell—just in case—and told the twins to have fun moving all that furniture. Then he ducked out the door beneath the stoop, climbed the steps of No. 15, and rang the bell.
A moment later, Hagmann answered.
“What’s your problem?” Tony said.
“It’s your father who appears to have the problem,” Hagmann said.
13 Hangmen Page 5
