Park Lane South, Queens

by Mary Anne Kelly

  “I don’t. Honest. I wish I did. Look. Maybe it was one of those crimes that never gets solved. Happens all the time. I mean, if the guy had buried the kid, that’s what might have happened. The way I see it, though, is this: he leaves the body in the wide open like that just so people do find it. That’s what worries me.”

  “Because?”

  “Because if no one does find him, he’ll do it again. Maybe. Sometimes it’s some nut job just passing through. Gets off a plane at Kennedy, kills one here, one there along the way … leaving a trail of bodies from here to L.A. You never know. I’ll let you in on something if you promise not to tell anyone.”

  “Now who would I tell?”

  “I dunno. Carmela. Can’t you just see her doing a daily on the progress of the 102? She eats this kind of stuff up.”

  “You can’t really blame her. It is intriguing.”

  “Intriguing? It’s macabre.”

  A bolt of lightning lit up the backyard and rain came down in a sheet. Mary flew into the kitchen with a basketful of laundry. “Not that one of my fully grown daughters would come out and give me a hand!” she cried, but she wasn’t angry, she was thrilled to feel the sudden rain. Her blood pressure was right up there and her cheeks were pink with pleasure. She pounded barefoot through the house, now dark, now bright with the powerful storm.

  “Not a word?” continued Zinnie.

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Well. Besides his little pocketful of possessions: a boy scout knife, baseball cards, and a couple of other things, the kid had a man’s new cufflink on him. A roulette wheel. Like a real one. With a little bead in it. On the top was a neat little knob that you could spin the bead with.”

  “So?”

  “‘So’ she says. You’re right. It might mean nothing at all. But if Miguel—that was the kid’s name—if Miguel knew the guy who killed him … if he’d met with him before, that might be just the kind of thing that would entice a little boy into the woods, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes. Except that that could have come from anywhere. His father—”

  “Didn’t. They checked.”

  “Or an uncle—”

  “An uncle could have killed him, too.”

  “What a thought!”

  “What a thought that anybody would have done it.”

  “I’ll say one thing. Inanimate objects sometimes carry messages.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like from the dead.”

  “Oh, please stop. You and your heebie-jeebie nonsense!”

  “It’s not nonsense.” And why did a roulette wheel cufflink ring a bell?

  “Right. Out with the Ouija board. I could clobber Daddy. He knows how worried I am to have Michaelaen out. Why doesn’t he bring him back? Sometimes I think he’s being purposely annoying. He is. He does it because he thinks that now that the cat is out of the bag and everyone knows that Freddy is gay, that means that Michaelaen is his. It’s like his macho power trip. Meanwhile, he was the one who was so hot on me marrying Freddy in the first place. Sure. Cause he thought Freddy was on his way to playing pro ball.”

  “Wait a minute. The guy fooled you, didn’t he? Why shouldn’t he have fooled Daddy? You’re just mad at all men because Freddy turned out gay.”

  “Just the opposite. I never felt more gently inclined.” She made a vulgar, rhythmic movement that made Claire laugh. “Anyhow, I’m going up there tonight. To Freddy’s. You wanna come with me?”

  “No. I’m afraid of Freddy. He’s so caustic and witty. He makes me feel vaguely stupid.”

  “He thinks you’re beautiful. No. He says you’re not really beautiful but you have these moments when you shine through and emote pure beauty.”

  “Freddy said that?”

  “It’s disturbing, he says.”

  “How horrible. Now I’ll never know when he’s watching me if he’s thinking I’m having a moment or not. Not that I should care … but women do care even if we don’t really. Something diabolical in us wants everyone we meet to fall in love with us if we think there’s a possibility, however remote. It pleases our ravenous vanity. Isn’t it unhealthy? How can women ever unite?”

  “We can’t. So why don’t you come tonight?”

  “Money, for one thing.”

  “I have money. Anyway, Freddy would never let us pay. I thought you said you had some money saved.”

  “Yes. For rent. For Mom and Dad so I’m not a total parasite. And to pay for film, ciggies, coffee, chemicals.”

  “In that order.”

  “That’s not nothing, you know. And paper. Good-quality paper.” Claire’s eyes lit up when she said “good-quality paper.” “Besides. Why do you always have to go to Freddy’s?”

  Zinnie looped Michaelaen’s yo-yo around her finger and coiled it up. “I feel guilty not going. I feel like he needs my support. Only I can’t pick up anybody there or I’ll feel more guilty. In front of him, I mean. It’s a no-win sitch. What the hell is that?”

  “What?” She was trying to remember where she’d seen a roulette wheel cufflink before. Or had she never seen one?

  “Those. Those muddy pots.”

  “They’re my herbs. The one you’re pointing to is borage. Or it will be. The others are basil, thyme, coriander, marjoram, chamomile, and comfrey.” She didn’t mention the cannabis she’d started in the yard. She’d only planted it for fun, really. To see how well it would flourish.

  Zinnie looked into the pots with distaste. “Yeah. But what are they for?”

  “I like them, Zin. Wait till they begin to grow. You’ll like them. You will.”

  “You talk about them like they’re new little folks who just moved into the neighborhood.”

  Claire opened the refrigerator and idly watched its contents. Mary had a whole boat-load of ribs going on in there, soaking up something nice. That would be for tonight. There was a bowl of rhubarb. Hmm. A couple of fat, soggy leeks. A half a cantaloupe. Oh, no. A big hunk of Tilsit. She shut the door with self-preserving swiftness.

  “How ’bout a little music?” suggested Zinnie, who shared her father’s passion for the stuff. Only her taste ran more to the Motown classics of the fifties and sixties. And whereas his were kept in an orderly file, hers were strewn about the house. She didn’t know where anything was, but she had all of them: the Temptations, the Supremes, Little Anthony and the Imperials, the Four Tops. She picked one up from behind the Mayor’s box and dusted it tenderly in a circle. “Here we go,” she blew on the needle and let it drop.

  “Aaaa million to wa-un,” Zinnie sang along with the opening line, “—that’s what our folks think about this love of ow-ers.…”

  Claire clapped her hands with delight. “You sound just like him,” she cried. “Really!” And it was true. Zinnie had it down. The only thing that stopped her from using her powerful, sweet voice more often at home was her own father’s embarrassingly rapt attention. Wherever he was on the property, if Zinnie would start to sing he would come rushing through the house and stand harrowingly still, and the next thing you knew his eyes would fill with tears. Zinnie didn’t go for that. That sort of stuff was for the birds.

  “Smokey Robinson,” Zinnie rolled her eyes when the song came to an end. “Vintage class, doncha think?”

  “Zinnie? How did you find out about that cufflink? You saw it when you saw the body?”

  “Nope.”

  “So how? You’ve been poking around at the 102, haven’t you?”

  “Why not? What are you lighting up a cigarette for? I thought you were going to quit.”

  “Cut down. No one ever said anything about quitting.”

  “What are you? Worried I been talking to his royal piece of ass?”

  “His who?”

  “Miss innocent. You know who I’m talking about.”

  “Oh. Him. Why would I care about him? You do mean the big arrogant one?”

  “Ha. That’s funny. That’s exactly the way he described you: the little arr
ogant one. No, wait. He said the little snotty one.”

  “I don’t care what he said.”

  “Not much you don’t.” She leaned over the sill. “Boy. It’s really wailing out there. I hope Daddy brought Michaelaen indoors.” She opened the freezer, cracked the ice cube tray into the sink, and tinkled more ice into her glass. “You know what I think? I think he likes you.”

  “Tch.”

  “He was married, you know.”

  Claire said nothing.

  “Apparently, the lady didn’t let her right hand know what her left was up to. I mean, she screwed around.”

  “Zinnie, I don’t care about Johnny Benedetto. Really! So stop speaking about him.”

  “Yessir!”

  They listened to the rain.

  “Tell ya one thing, though. He’s a crackerjack detective. All sorts of commendations and sharpshooter medals. And he’s handy. He even fixed Furgueson’s old bomb of a car for him.”

  “Here comes your son,” Claire picked the curtain up with her toe, “—followed by our soaking father.”

  In they came, joyfully splattering water onto everything. The Mayor, quite recovered from his run-in with the law, greeted them in his effusive style. His alarming baritone went off at irritating three-second intervals, insisting they join him in the old sit-beg-give-take, tradition being the cornerstone of culture. Off he flew then with his Milk Bone, on a successful tournée of the dining room table legs. Back he gallivanted for a culminating snortle under one of Mary’s many scatter rugs. Crunchy scatter rugs.

  Mary swept the bone bits up with a bored sigh and dumped them into his toy box. They could talk about the ticket later on. Stan looked tired and she didn’t want him worrying about the hundred dollars now.

  “We wuz at the junkies!” Michaelaen shouted. “We sold the brass pipes and we got fireplace irons!”

  “How enchanting,” Mary said. “What’s next? A fireplace?”

  “Who’s minding the store, Pop?”

  “Hank’s there. I been lettin him open up the last week or so. Get to spend some time with my grandson, right, pardner?”

  “Right!”

  “I thought you didn’t trust Hank.”

  “Oh, he’s all right. He’s good with the Spanish customers. That hot tamale music doesn’t bother him.”

  “Nuthin but spics on Jamaica Avenue, anymore,” Mary shook her head.

  “Hispanics, Mary,” he glared at her. “Whatta you wanna do? Teach the kid here to be a racist?”

  “You’re the one who always says you’re gonna sell out because of them!” Zinnie laughed.

  “Whatever. I’m just waitin for the Koreans with a bag of cash. When they come in, I’m selling the business. You watch.”

  “You wouldn’t do it, Dad. You say so but you wouldn’t.”

  “Ha. You watch. I’ll retire.”

  “I’ve been wanting you to retire for five years,” Mary said. “That neighborhood is going to the devil. But you won’t retire. I know you.”

  “Oh, yes, I will. Or I’ll look for a new store up in Kew Gardens. You watch.”

  “And pay those rents?”

  “The Jews are the only ones who can pay rent?”

  “That rent? Yeah.”

  Michaelaen losing interest, put his hand in his blue jeans where it felt good.

  “Jesus! Mary,” Stan shouted at her, “can’t you stop him from doin’ that?!”

  “Give him one a your cannons, Pop,” Zinnie narrowed her eyes. “Let him play with something more to the point.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The rain beat down on Aqueduct and steam rose from the muddy track. Pokey Ryan watched carefully as the boards recorded the latest bets. The lines up to the fluorescent-lit windows dwindled the closer it came to post time. A big jump came onto the board under number five. That was what he was waiting for. Pokey walked calmly out to the stands and whipped out his flashlight. Usually he positioned himself deeper in the portal but today it was so dark out that that wasn’t necessary. He gave it five healthy blasts.

  Across the track and past the stables Johnny Benedetto shut the window, tossed his binoculars onto the bed, and picked up the phone. He ran a finger down the racing form. Number five. Number five. Here we go: Miss Know It All. He listened to the phone ring at the other end. “Eddie? Johnny. Can I still get in on the fourth race? Yeah? Gimmie Miss Know It All twenty times in the fourth. Got that? Good.” He hung up. Candy from a baby. He shook his head softly, put on his shoulder holster, and headed out the door.

  “Here we are, your honor.” Claire relaxed the clothesline leash even more. Now they stood a good ten feet from each other on the top of the hill. Behind them and below was the still-slippery curve of Park Lane South. In front and below was the underwater green of the glittering woods. The storm had knocked down plenty of branches and left the whole place wild. Prettier than ever, the Mayor thought. A sunlit pandemonium. It wasn’t often that he came in these woods. Not since that last run-in with a rowdy pack of wild dogs. An honorable defeat, mind you, but not the sort one would like to repeat in the extreme near future. They wouldn’t give him any trouble with Claire about. They feared humans, didn’t they? A motley crew. He still could feel those scars. Especially right before a rain. That was why he’d come home so early this morning … and missed a good soaking. Good for something, those old wounds. Bad for others. Now they’d keep him on a leash. Infernal bother! However was he going to keep the neighborhood in order if he was kept indoors? Or attached to a human! She had her hulking camera with her, too. How were they going to have a good run with that thing clanging about her neck? Always stopping to take pictures of any tomfoolery!

  “Look,” Claire came over and knelt down beside him. “I’m going to take you off your stupid clothesline, but I’m going to have to put it back on when we leave the woods, all right? You won’t just run off on me, will you? Good.”

  She unhooked him from his irritating noose and scrubbed his back with her short nails. “C’mon,” she laughed. “We’re off.”

  And off they did go—not quite as energetically as either of them had planned, however. Claire would stop for a shot here and there and he would halt for just about any gamey essence. They were an excellent running team, each equally short of breath at frequent, corresponding intervals. The European Jews were out now. And there were other joggers, thrilled to once again have fresh breathing air after the clean wash of rain. Claire didn’t like to take the main routes. The others looked so official that she was shy for them to see her not wearing what seemed to be the uniform: some sort of platypuslike tennis shoes and buoyant pastel-colored leotards. She and the Mayor kept to the thicket, colliding good-naturedly with nature as they bolted through. Each of them was lost in thought.

  Now, what in glory goodness is that? The Mayor periscoped his dark snout upward, not understanding for the life of him why one of Stan’s more radiant symphonies should suddenly come up here and interrupt the birds’ song. It was, in fact, the dizzying strains of the “Skater’s Waltz.” The Mayor looked at Claire, but he couldn’t decipher that expression of joy and pain all at once.

  Claire was captivated, transported momentarily back to Munich any Wednesday afternoon in the Englische Garten, the oompah-pah band in full swing, the sun in your eyes, and the bright yellow beer. Oh, yes. There were times when you remembered why you’d spent so many years there, after all. She smiled at the Mayor. “I think we’ve stumbled across the carousel,” she said.

  The Mayor wasn’t having any of it. An organ concert in the woods, indeed.

  “No, no, really, it’s all right,” she told him. “This must be the old carousel they’ve renovated. I read about it in the local paper. Look, fellow, come here and have a look. It’s all magnificent horses. Hand-carved. God. I remember this from when Michael and I were kids. We loved it here. We used to catch guppies over there before they drained the pond.”

  The Mayor took one look at the whirling cavalry horses and the fancy pastel
chargers. That was it. He turned to go.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be such a spoil sport. You hear? Now they’re playing the ‘Merry Widow Waltz.’ I can’t believe they actually renovated this place. When I left Queens it was a filthy haven for dealers and junkies. Whoever did this did a beautiful job. Jesus, it’s pretty. I’ve never seen such lavenders and subtle pinks and mossy greens like that on a carousel; they’re usually so garish. These are unbelievable.” Claire shot while she spoke to the Mayor, trying to calm him down with the sound of her voice just long enough for her to get something really good. There weren’t many kids, just a smattering of babies and tired parents, but no one could be unaffected by the beauty. The shining faces blurred and she put the camera down.

  There was a guy looking at her, an older guy, maybe sixty or so. Maybe younger. It was hard to tell his age. He was either very blond or very white. His eyes were piercing and as pale a blue as Claire had ever seen. They almost weren’t there. The man lowered his monkey wrench and came out from the bowels of the machinery into the light. He was older than she’d thought. He continued to watch her. Always sensitive to people’s shyness at being photographed, she put her lens cap back on and dangled the camera across her shoulder.

  In a thick German accent, he shouted something to another mechanic still working at the center of the gears. Claire didn’t catch what he said but the unfriendliness of his tone chilled her. She shivered and turned with the Mayor to go. There were also times when she remembered quite well why she had left Germany.

  They hurried along. Claire hadn’t realized how far they’d come and she moved quickly, her shoulders brushing the overgrown plants. There was poison oak in here, she remembered, and poison ivy all over the place. The carousel had jarred all sorts of memories.

  “Hello, there,” someone said and Claire whirled around, frightened. The murder was still fresh in everybody’s minds. It was a man. A good-looking man at that. He was tall, slightly older than she, and extremely thin. The Mayor, caught as unawares as she, bared his fine row of teeth (he’d always been criminally vain of those teeth) and Claire had to grab him by the tail before he lurched for the man.