“A wall safe is a metal box stuck in a wall.
You dig it out, takes no time at all, carry it home, work on it at your
leisure.”
“Was that the first time you were caught?”
He looked at her, not answering,
letting her drink him in, until she laughed and said, “Sorry, you’re right.
Stupid question. Okay, next time, I’ll represent you. But try not to be caught quite so red-handed.”
He looked at his hands, pitying
them. “Black-handed, this time.”
“I have towelettes in the glove
compartment,” she said. cc When you’re done.”
A car or a truck went by from time
to time, but nobody stopped to see if any help was needed. It was clear that
Frank was doing the job. And the lady lawyer wasn’t afraid of him any more.
That’s all it took, a little conversation, spend some time, see what Frank
Hillfen’s really like. Not a nice guy, maybe, not pretty, but not dangerous.
She said her name was Mary Ann
Kelleny, and he told her he was Frank Hillfen, and she said, “Frank. Good. That
fits you.”
“I don’t know about that Mary Ann
stuff,” he said. “How can a lawyer be named Mary Ann?”
“Why not?” she asked him. ‘There’s
lawyers named Randolph, aren’t there?”
“Yeah, that’s true.” He tightened
the last lug nut.
“What was your attorney’s name?”
she asked. “The one with the necktie.”
“Gower.”
She smiled and spread her hands. “I
rest my case.”
He hadn’t known what she meant when
she said “towelettes,” but they turned out to be those folded wet paper towels
in a packet that restaurants give you after you eat the lobster. He used three
of them from her glove compartment supply; a well-prepared lady. He would have
thrown the towelettes away into the weeds but she pointed at the plastic trash
bag she’d hung from the dashboard cigarette lighter. “You’re a good influence
on me,” he said, and disposed of his trash properly.
The bus stop was less than a mile
farther on, at an intersection containing two gas stations, a diner, and a
squat modern one-story “professional building”: the professionals were a
dentist, a real estate agent, and a stockbroker. Down the road to the right
were a few houses, new but shabby, as though for a town that hadn’t quite
happened. Up to the left was a long, wide, gray two-story factory building with
very few windows. TEXTECH in blue was along the blank wall facing this way.
Frank said, “What’s that?”
“Clothing,” she told him. “Sweaters,
T-shirts. Sweatshirts that say Property
of Alcatraz?
“I never saw a sweatshirt like
that,” Frank said. He couldn’t help it, his mouth was pursed in disapproval. Property of Alcatraz; that was bad
taste.
“They don’t sell them in America,”
she explained. “Only overseas.”
“Where?”
“Asia. Europe.”
“Property of Alcatraz.” Frank saw a
teenager in Tokyo, walking down a crowded street, wearing a sweatshirt that
says, Property of Alcatraz. Doesn’t
speak ten words of English. Was the kid somebody’s property in Alcatraz, wouldn’t last a day. People
wearing the words, don’t know what they say. Don’t know what they mean.
“The global village,” Mary Ann
Kelleny said.
“Yeah,” Frank said. “But do they get
it? I don’t think so.”
“Does it matter? As long as they’re
happy.”
“Okay,” Frank said. “Fll bite. Are
they happy?”
She glanced at him as she
You dig it out, takes no time at all, carry it home, work on it at your
leisure.”
“Was that the first time you were caught?”
He looked at her, not answering,
letting her drink him in, until she laughed and said, “Sorry, you’re right.
Stupid question. Okay, next time, I’ll represent you. But try not to be caught quite so red-handed.”
He looked at his hands, pitying
them. “Black-handed, this time.”
“I have towelettes in the glove
compartment,” she said. cc When you’re done.”
A car or a truck went by from time
to time, but nobody stopped to see if any help was needed. It was clear that
Frank was doing the job. And the lady lawyer wasn’t afraid of him any more.
That’s all it took, a little conversation, spend some time, see what Frank
Hillfen’s really like. Not a nice guy, maybe, not pretty, but not dangerous.
She said her name was Mary Ann
Kelleny, and he told her he was Frank Hillfen, and she said, “Frank. Good. That
fits you.”
“I don’t know about that Mary Ann
stuff,” he said. “How can a lawyer be named Mary Ann?”
“Why not?” she asked him. ‘There’s
lawyers named Randolph, aren’t there?”
“Yeah, that’s true.” He tightened
the last lug nut.
“What was your attorney’s name?”
she asked. “The one with the necktie.”
“Gower.”
She smiled and spread her hands. “I
rest my case.”
He hadn’t known what she meant when
she said “towelettes,” but they turned out to be those folded wet paper towels
in a packet that restaurants give you after you eat the lobster. He used three
of them from her glove compartment supply; a well-prepared lady. He would have
thrown the towelettes away into the weeds but she pointed at the plastic trash
bag she’d hung from the dashboard cigarette lighter. “You’re a good influence
on me,” he said, and disposed of his trash properly.
The bus stop was less than a mile
farther on, at an intersection containing two gas stations, a diner, and a
squat modern one-story “professional building”: the professionals were a
dentist, a real estate agent, and a stockbroker. Down the road to the right
were a few houses, new but shabby, as though for a town that hadn’t quite
happened. Up to the left was a long, wide, gray two-story factory building with
very few windows. TEXTECH in blue was along the blank wall facing this way.
Frank said, “What’s that?”
“Clothing,” she told him. “Sweaters,
T-shirts. Sweatshirts that say Property
of Alcatraz?
“I never saw a sweatshirt like
that,” Frank said. He couldn’t help it, his mouth was pursed in disapproval. Property of Alcatraz; that was bad
taste.
“They don’t sell them in America,”
she explained. “Only overseas.”
“Where?”
“Asia. Europe.”
“Property of Alcatraz.” Frank saw a
teenager in Tokyo, walking down a crowded street, wearing a sweatshirt that
says, Property of Alcatraz. Doesn’t
speak ten words of English. Was the kid somebody’s property in Alcatraz, wouldn’t last a day. People
wearing the words, don’t know what they say. Don’t know what they mean.
“The global village,” Mary Ann
Kelleny said.
“Yeah,” Frank said. “But do they get
it? I don’t think so.”
“Does it matter? As long as they’re
happy.”
“Okay,” Frank said. “Fll bite. Are
they happy?”
She glanced at him as she
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