Buried on Avenue B by Peter de Jonge

luck with Stanley.”
    O’Hara glances in the direction of the lobby. When she turns back to thank her guide, he’s halfway down the block, one hand raised in farewell. O’Hara retreats to the bodega on the south corner, and buys a Red Bull. When it’s done, she deems herself straight enough to proceed.
    â€œDr. Kurlander,” O’Hara tells the doorman. At seven, the elevator opens on a frosted glass door. Etched in white letters is “East Village Women. Ob-Gyn Associates, LLP, Dr. Elizabeth Kurlander & Dr. Ellie Weisenberg.” Rather than hook her up, Ben has referred her to a gynecologist, which answers her question. O’Hara is Doris.

 
    CHAPTER 20
    â€œI HOPE WHAT I’m smelling is secondhand,” says Jandorek.
    â€œIt is. The skaters were hitting the pipe at eight a.m.”
    â€œThey better have been hitting it alone. The last thing you need is another vice.”
    O’Hara and Jandorek are parked in front Lion’s Hardware, a freestanding brick building on B and First, across from a large mural dedicated to John Lennon. It’s the only facade on the block unblemished by graffiti, and when O’Hara gets a good look at the man behind the counter, she understands why. Malmströmer is at least six-seven and solid, with the severe countenance of a man from a harsher time and place, not the sort likely to see the upside of having some asshole’s initials on his store. After a super with a boil on the back of his neck picks up his preordered faucet, O’Hara and Jandorek follow Malmströmer to the office in the back.
    â€œMr. Malmströmer,” says Jandorek, “as you might have heard, we’re investigating the disappearance of a young boy whose family may have been members of the community garden.”
    â€œI hadn’t. And I doubt I’ll be of much help. I’m never there. Christina has the plot now, and from what I can tell she’s doing a very good job with it.”
    â€œHow do you know, if you’re never there?” asks O’Hara.
    â€œI live around the corner from the community garden. From my own garden on the roof, I have a pretty good view of her plot.”
    â€œI met your daughter last week,” says O’Hara. “She’s lovely.”
    â€œChristina’s my angel,” says Malmströmer.
    â€œWe heard you watch your daughter with binoculars,” says Jandorek.
    â€œCasey should mind her own business.”
    â€œOr maybe you should mind yours, Mr. Malmströmer. I doubt a twenty-five-year-old woman appreciates being kept under surveillance by her father.” Malmströmer’s eyes flicker with indignation. He glances at Jandorek, holds the stare for a beat, then looks down at his own enormous hands, as if admonishing them not to do anything rash. “I have a garden, and Christina has a garden, and it so happens that when I am working on mine, I can see her working on hers. . . . Excuse me.” A young clerk stands outside the office. “Do we have any more rat traps in the basement? A customer wants a hundred.”
    â€œTell him we can have them tomorrow. But take a deposit.”
    â€œI hear you have quite a garden yourself,” says Jandorek.
    â€œCasey again?”
    â€œWhat do you do with all the stuff you grow, Mr. Malmströmer?” asks O’Hara.
    â€œYou want me to account for my vegetables?”
    â€œYour daughter has her own garden. You live alone. That’s a lot of produce. What do you do with it?”
    â€œI eat some. And give the rest to the Bowery Mission. They seem to appreciate it. Is there anything else I can do for you, detectives?”
    â€œI understand you have an older daughter,” says Jandorek.
    â€œI’m afraid I lost Inga to the streets.”
    â€œWhat was she doing that was so awful? There’s no record of an arrest.”
    â€œTaking drugs, lying about it, and disobeying