Park Lane South, Queens by Mary Anne Kelly Page B

“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.
    â€œSmokey Robinson,” Zinnie rolled her eyes when the song came to an end. “Vintage class, doncha think?”
    â€œZinnie? How did you find out about that cufflink? You saw it when you saw the body?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œSo how? You’ve been poking around at the 102, haven’t you?”
    â€œWhy not? What are you lighting up a cigarette for? I thought you were going to quit.”
    â€œCut down. No one ever said anything about quitting.”
    â€œWhat are you? Worried I been talking to his royal piece of ass?”
    â€œHis who?”
    â€œMiss innocent. You know who I’m talking about.”
    â€œOh. Him. Why would I care about him? You do mean the big arrogant one?”
    â€œHa. That’s funny. That’s exactly the way he described you: the little arrogant one. No, wait. He said the little snotty one.”
    â€œI don’t care what he said.”
    â€œNot 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.”
    â€œTch.”
    â€œHe was married, you know.”
    Claire said nothing.
    â€œApparently, the lady didn’t let her right hand know what her left was up to. I mean, she screwed around.”
    â€œZinnie, I don’t care about Johnny Benedetto. Really! So stop speaking about him.”
    â€œYessir!”
    They listened to the rain.
    â€œTell 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.”
    â€œHere 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.
    â€œWe wuz at the junkies!” Michaelaen shouted. “We sold the brass pipes and we got fireplace irons!”
    â€œHow enchanting,” Mary said. “What’s next? A fireplace?”
    â€œWho’s minding the store, Pop?”
    â€œHank’s there. I been lettin him open up the last week or so. Get to spend some time with my grandson, right, pardner?”
    â€œRight!”
    â€œI thought you didn’t trust Hank.”
    â€œOh, he’s all right. He’s good with the Spanish customers. That hot tamale music doesn’t bother him.”
    â€œNuthin but spics on Jamaica Avenue, anymore,” Mary shook her head.
    â€œHispanics, Mary,” he glared at her. “Whatta you wanna do? Teach the kid here to be a racist?”
    â€œYou’re the one who always says