newspaper into the gutter.
* * *
The house was on East 217th Street in the Bronx. It rose like a tall, stucco crackerbox, its many windows reflecting the orange light of the dawn. Ray stood across the street, leaning against the iron fence surrounding the junior high school. It was a quiet street, none of the houses higher than three stories. Large shade trees crowded the sidewalks, giving the street the appearance of a shaded lane somewhere in the country.
A large brown-and-white dog trotted by on the other side of the street, glanced briefly at Ray, and then continued its solitary stroll. From one of the houses, Ray heard the strident shriek of an alarm clock, followed immediately by a low grumbling.
Another alarm clock burst into clamoring life, and Ray smiled. He fished a crumpled package from his pocket, dug into it for his one remaining cigarette. The cigarette was brown, stained from the drenching he’d received during the night, and he had to strike five soggy matches before he got one to light.
He had finished the cigarette and was grinding it out under his heel when he saw the man start down the driveway alongside the stucco house.
The man was tall, and he held his shoulders erect as he hurried down the rutted driveway. Ray pushed himself off the iron fence and crossed the street. The man carried a small green lunch pail, and he wore overalls.
As he neared the sidewalk, he saw Ray crossing the street.
Ray raised his head, ran up onto the sidewalk. “Mr. Chalmers?” he asked.
The shoulders pulled back a fraction of an inch, and the posture grew more erect. White brows pulled together into a defiant frown. The man’s lips were tight when he answered.
“Yes?” His eyes were deep brown, so brown against the white of his brows that they looked black.
“I wonder if I can ask you a few questions, Mr. Chalmers?”
Chalmers studied Ray’s face. “You’re the addict,” he said softly.
The words startled Ray. He wanted to turn and run, but his feet were glued to the pavement. “Yes,” he answered.
“Did you kill her?” Chalmers’s voice was steady.
“No.”
Chalmers blinked, the lids closing rapidly over his eyes, then snapping upward to reveal the intense brown again.
“You should have.” He turned his back on Ray, and his head high, started walking toward a ’41 Oldsmobile parking at the curb.
“Mr. Chalmers. Wait—”
Chalmers leaned over, put a key into the door of the car. “Do you know who killed her?” he asked.
“No. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
Chalmers nodded, pulled open the car door. “I don’t feel a damn bit sorry for her,” he said, his mouth still tight. “But whoever did it should pay.”
“If you can just answer a few questions,” Ray said.
Chalmers reached into his jacket pocket, extracted a gold watch. He snapped open the lid, looked at the time, then clicked the lid shut again. “I’ll be late for work,” he said. He put the watch back into his pocket.
“Where do you work?”
“Rogers-Mailer. Aircraft parts. Over the Whitestone Bridge. Know it?”
“No, But can I ride with you? I mean, we’ll talk on the way over.”
Chalmers looked steadily at Ray again. “Can’t see any harm,” he said. “Can’t drive you back, though.”
“I know. I just—”
“Well, get in, then.”
Ray walked around to the other side of the car, waited for Chalmers to unlock the door, and then slid onto the front seat. Chalmers turned on the ignition, and started the motor. He let it idle for a few moments, then pulled away from the curb. He stopped at the corner, looked in both directions, then made a right turn toward Gun Hill Road.
They rode in silence for a while. Then Ray said, “It seems you didn’t like your daughter.”
Chalmers kept looking at the road, his hands tight on the wheel. “Ain’t a man alive who doesn’t like his own daughter. Wouldn’t be human if he felt that way. Only sometimes a daughter’s better off
* * *
The house was on East 217th Street in the Bronx. It rose like a tall, stucco crackerbox, its many windows reflecting the orange light of the dawn. Ray stood across the street, leaning against the iron fence surrounding the junior high school. It was a quiet street, none of the houses higher than three stories. Large shade trees crowded the sidewalks, giving the street the appearance of a shaded lane somewhere in the country.
A large brown-and-white dog trotted by on the other side of the street, glanced briefly at Ray, and then continued its solitary stroll. From one of the houses, Ray heard the strident shriek of an alarm clock, followed immediately by a low grumbling.
Another alarm clock burst into clamoring life, and Ray smiled. He fished a crumpled package from his pocket, dug into it for his one remaining cigarette. The cigarette was brown, stained from the drenching he’d received during the night, and he had to strike five soggy matches before he got one to light.
He had finished the cigarette and was grinding it out under his heel when he saw the man start down the driveway alongside the stucco house.
The man was tall, and he held his shoulders erect as he hurried down the rutted driveway. Ray pushed himself off the iron fence and crossed the street. The man carried a small green lunch pail, and he wore overalls.
As he neared the sidewalk, he saw Ray crossing the street.
Ray raised his head, ran up onto the sidewalk. “Mr. Chalmers?” he asked.
The shoulders pulled back a fraction of an inch, and the posture grew more erect. White brows pulled together into a defiant frown. The man’s lips were tight when he answered.
“Yes?” His eyes were deep brown, so brown against the white of his brows that they looked black.
“I wonder if I can ask you a few questions, Mr. Chalmers?”
Chalmers studied Ray’s face. “You’re the addict,” he said softly.
The words startled Ray. He wanted to turn and run, but his feet were glued to the pavement. “Yes,” he answered.
“Did you kill her?” Chalmers’s voice was steady.
“No.”
Chalmers blinked, the lids closing rapidly over his eyes, then snapping upward to reveal the intense brown again.
“You should have.” He turned his back on Ray, and his head high, started walking toward a ’41 Oldsmobile parking at the curb.
“Mr. Chalmers. Wait—”
Chalmers leaned over, put a key into the door of the car. “Do you know who killed her?” he asked.
“No. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
Chalmers nodded, pulled open the car door. “I don’t feel a damn bit sorry for her,” he said, his mouth still tight. “But whoever did it should pay.”
“If you can just answer a few questions,” Ray said.
Chalmers reached into his jacket pocket, extracted a gold watch. He snapped open the lid, looked at the time, then clicked the lid shut again. “I’ll be late for work,” he said. He put the watch back into his pocket.
“Where do you work?”
“Rogers-Mailer. Aircraft parts. Over the Whitestone Bridge. Know it?”
“No, But can I ride with you? I mean, we’ll talk on the way over.”
Chalmers looked steadily at Ray again. “Can’t see any harm,” he said. “Can’t drive you back, though.”
“I know. I just—”
“Well, get in, then.”
Ray walked around to the other side of the car, waited for Chalmers to unlock the door, and then slid onto the front seat. Chalmers turned on the ignition, and started the motor. He let it idle for a few moments, then pulled away from the curb. He stopped at the corner, looked in both directions, then made a right turn toward Gun Hill Road.
They rode in silence for a while. Then Ray said, “It seems you didn’t like your daughter.”
Chalmers kept looking at the road, his hands tight on the wheel. “Ain’t a man alive who doesn’t like his own daughter. Wouldn’t be human if he felt that way. Only sometimes a daughter’s better off
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