the hips to cover the gun. Its rayon-linen blend would be tolerable, if not wonderful, in the heat. With a white lawn blouse, sheer navy pantyhose and low-heeled black pumps, I looked like a candidate for convent school.
When Burgoyne arrived a little before twelve-thirty, I buzzed him in through the street door, then went out to the landing to see what Mr. Contreras might do. Sure enough, he arrived promptly on the scene. I laughed quietly to myself as I eavesdropped.
“Excuse me, young man, but where are you going?”
Burgoyne, startled: “I’m visiting one of the tenants on the third floor.”
“Warshawski or Cummings?‘”
“Why do you want to know?” Burgoyne used his doctor-to-hysterical-patient voice.
I’ve got my reasons, young man. Now, I don’t want to have to call the cops, so who are you visiting?”
Before Mr. Contreras got to the point of demanding a driver’s license, I called down that I knew who it was.
“Okay, doll,” Mr. Contreras’s voice floated back up. “Just wanted to make sure he wasn’t friends of friends you don’t want calling on you, if you get me.”
I thanked him gravely and waited on the landing for Burgoyne. He ran up lightly and reached the top without breathing hard. In a navy summer suit, with his dark hair washed and combed, he looked younger and happier than he’d seemed at the hospital.
“Hi,” he said. “Good to see you again. Who’s the old man?”
“Neighbor. Good friend. He’s feeling in a protective mood, but it’s well-intentioned-don’t let it upset you.”
“No, no. It doesn’t. You ready? You want to go in my car?”
“Just a second.” I went inside to fetch a hat. Not for religious scruples. I was taking very seriously the idea of keeping direct summer sun off my face.
“That’s quite a cut you got there.” Burgoyne looked closely at my face. “Looks like you were hit by a piece of flying glass. I thought most windshields crumbled these days instead of shattering.”
“I was cut by a piece of metal,” I explained, double-locking the door.
Burgoyne drove an ‘86 Nissan Maxima. The car was beautifully appointed, with leather seats, a leather dashboard, individual six-way seat controls, and, naturally, a phone resting over the universal joint. I sank back in the bucket seat. No city sounds reached us, and the air-conditioning, which kept the car at 69 degrees, was noiseless. If I’d gone into corporate law and kept my mouth shut when
I was supposed to, I’d be driving a car like this. But then I’d never have met Sergio or Fabiano. You can’t have everything in this life.
“How’d you get Monday afternoon off for a funeral?” I asked idly.
He smiled briefly. “I’m in charge of OB at Friendship- I simply tell people I’m taking off.”
I was impressed and said so. “You’re pretty young to have moved so fast, aren’t you?”
He shook his head. “Not really. I think I told you I went out there when they were just starting to build up their obstetrical service. So I have seniority. That’s all. Just like being a pipefitter.”
It took a scant ten minutes to cover the three miles to the church. We had no trouble finding a parking space in the derelict streets. Burgoyne carefully locked the Maxima and switched on its alarm. It might slow down the less enterprising of the neighborhood’s youth, at least in broad daylight.
Holy Sepulchre had been built sixty years ago as part of a large Polish community. In its heyday, close to a thousand people attended the main Sunday mass. Now, even a multitude of Alvarados, an entire convent of nuns, and dozens of schoolgirls could not fill the nave. Unadorned stone pillars disappeared high overhead into a vaulted ceiling. A high altar attached to the wall was lit fitfully by many candles: Holy Sepulchre had stood firm against many of the changes of Vatican II. The windows had been
When Burgoyne arrived a little before twelve-thirty, I buzzed him in through the street door, then went out to the landing to see what Mr. Contreras might do. Sure enough, he arrived promptly on the scene. I laughed quietly to myself as I eavesdropped.
“Excuse me, young man, but where are you going?”
Burgoyne, startled: “I’m visiting one of the tenants on the third floor.”
“Warshawski or Cummings?‘”
“Why do you want to know?” Burgoyne used his doctor-to-hysterical-patient voice.
I’ve got my reasons, young man. Now, I don’t want to have to call the cops, so who are you visiting?”
Before Mr. Contreras got to the point of demanding a driver’s license, I called down that I knew who it was.
“Okay, doll,” Mr. Contreras’s voice floated back up. “Just wanted to make sure he wasn’t friends of friends you don’t want calling on you, if you get me.”
I thanked him gravely and waited on the landing for Burgoyne. He ran up lightly and reached the top without breathing hard. In a navy summer suit, with his dark hair washed and combed, he looked younger and happier than he’d seemed at the hospital.
“Hi,” he said. “Good to see you again. Who’s the old man?”
“Neighbor. Good friend. He’s feeling in a protective mood, but it’s well-intentioned-don’t let it upset you.”
“No, no. It doesn’t. You ready? You want to go in my car?”
“Just a second.” I went inside to fetch a hat. Not for religious scruples. I was taking very seriously the idea of keeping direct summer sun off my face.
“That’s quite a cut you got there.” Burgoyne looked closely at my face. “Looks like you were hit by a piece of flying glass. I thought most windshields crumbled these days instead of shattering.”
“I was cut by a piece of metal,” I explained, double-locking the door.
Burgoyne drove an ‘86 Nissan Maxima. The car was beautifully appointed, with leather seats, a leather dashboard, individual six-way seat controls, and, naturally, a phone resting over the universal joint. I sank back in the bucket seat. No city sounds reached us, and the air-conditioning, which kept the car at 69 degrees, was noiseless. If I’d gone into corporate law and kept my mouth shut when
I was supposed to, I’d be driving a car like this. But then I’d never have met Sergio or Fabiano. You can’t have everything in this life.
“How’d you get Monday afternoon off for a funeral?” I asked idly.
He smiled briefly. “I’m in charge of OB at Friendship- I simply tell people I’m taking off.”
I was impressed and said so. “You’re pretty young to have moved so fast, aren’t you?”
He shook his head. “Not really. I think I told you I went out there when they were just starting to build up their obstetrical service. So I have seniority. That’s all. Just like being a pipefitter.”
It took a scant ten minutes to cover the three miles to the church. We had no trouble finding a parking space in the derelict streets. Burgoyne carefully locked the Maxima and switched on its alarm. It might slow down the less enterprising of the neighborhood’s youth, at least in broad daylight.
Holy Sepulchre had been built sixty years ago as part of a large Polish community. In its heyday, close to a thousand people attended the main Sunday mass. Now, even a multitude of Alvarados, an entire convent of nuns, and dozens of schoolgirls could not fill the nave. Unadorned stone pillars disappeared high overhead into a vaulted ceiling. A high altar attached to the wall was lit fitfully by many candles: Holy Sepulchre had stood firm against many of the changes of Vatican II. The windows had been
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