more playful. He missed that Dion, but he trusted he was still in there somewhere.
“You heard about the thing happened in Brown Town?” Dion asked.
“Yup.”
“Your thoughts?”
“Freddy DiGiacomo’s a fucking knucklehead.”
“Anything you might want to tell me that I don’t already know?”
“Montooth has been a great earner for us for fourteen years. Since the day you and I got here, D.”
“That is a fact.”
“In a sane world, we’d apologize for bothering him. And for our penance, we’d hit Freddy over the fucking head with a rock and throw him in the bay.”
“Sure,” Dion said, “in a sane world. But two of ours are dead. That has to be addressed. We’ll have a sit-down tomorrow.”
“What time?”
“Let’s say four.”
Joe did the math on what kind of time it would take to get to Raiford and back. “Any way you could push it to five?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“Then I’ll be there.”
“Good enough.” Dion inhaled on one of his ever-present cigars. “How’s my pal?”
“He’s got chicken pox.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. And Narcisa won’t watch him until he’s over it.”
“Who works for who over there?”
“Best governess I ever had.”
“She must be, she makes her own hours.”
“What about you?”
Dion yawned. “Same muck and shit as every other day.”
“Aww. Is the crown too heavy?”
“It was too heavy for you.”
“Nah. Charlie pushed me out because I wasn’t a wop.”
“That’s how you remember it.”
“How it was.”
“Hmm. I recall someone whining about how they just couldn’t take it anymore, all the blood, all the responsibility. Wah wah wah.”
Joe chuckled. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
When he hung up, he thought of parting the drapes. Most nights, he opened the French doors to breathe in the mint and bougainvillea, look out at the wading pool, the dark gardens, the stucco wall covered in ivy and Spanish moss.
If someone were perched on that wall with a rifle, though . . .
What would they see? He’d left the lights off behind him. He could take a peek out there at least.
He turned his chair and slipped a finger between the drapes. He looked out through the slit at the stucco wall the color of a new penny and the one orange tree he could see.
The boy stood in front of the tree, wearing a white sailor suit with matching bloomer pants. He cocked his head, as if he hadn’t expected to see Joe, and then he skipped away. Didn’t walk. Skipped.
Before he knew he was doing it, Joe threw back the drapes and stared out at his still and empty yard.
In the next instant, he pictured a bullet leaving a rifle and pushed his chair back, let the drapes fall over the doors.
He wheeled the chair away from the window and stopped where two of his bookcases met in a V. As he sat there, the boy walked past his office door and headed for the stairs.
The chair spun when Joe left it. He reached the hall and climbed the empty stairs. He checked in on Tomas and found him sleeping. He looked under his bed. Took a look in his closet. Once more, down on his knees, to look under the bed. Nothing.
He moved through the other bedrooms. A vein pulsed under his jaw. The flesh nearest to his spine felt as if ants were crawling under it, and the air in the house was so cold he could feel it in his teeth.
He searched the entire house. When he was done, he entered his bedroom, where he expected to find the boy, but the room was empty.
Joe sat awake well into the night. When the boy had passed by his office door, his features had been more distinct than on previous encounters. This allowed Joe to confirm a clear family resemblance. He had the long Coughlin jaw and small ears. If, in that moment,he’d turned and looked directly at him, Joe wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d done so with the face of his father.
But why would his father take the form of a child? Even when his father had been a child, Joe doubted he’d ever seemed
“You heard about the thing happened in Brown Town?” Dion asked.
“Yup.”
“Your thoughts?”
“Freddy DiGiacomo’s a fucking knucklehead.”
“Anything you might want to tell me that I don’t already know?”
“Montooth has been a great earner for us for fourteen years. Since the day you and I got here, D.”
“That is a fact.”
“In a sane world, we’d apologize for bothering him. And for our penance, we’d hit Freddy over the fucking head with a rock and throw him in the bay.”
“Sure,” Dion said, “in a sane world. But two of ours are dead. That has to be addressed. We’ll have a sit-down tomorrow.”
“What time?”
“Let’s say four.”
Joe did the math on what kind of time it would take to get to Raiford and back. “Any way you could push it to five?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“Then I’ll be there.”
“Good enough.” Dion inhaled on one of his ever-present cigars. “How’s my pal?”
“He’s got chicken pox.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. And Narcisa won’t watch him until he’s over it.”
“Who works for who over there?”
“Best governess I ever had.”
“She must be, she makes her own hours.”
“What about you?”
Dion yawned. “Same muck and shit as every other day.”
“Aww. Is the crown too heavy?”
“It was too heavy for you.”
“Nah. Charlie pushed me out because I wasn’t a wop.”
“That’s how you remember it.”
“How it was.”
“Hmm. I recall someone whining about how they just couldn’t take it anymore, all the blood, all the responsibility. Wah wah wah.”
Joe chuckled. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
When he hung up, he thought of parting the drapes. Most nights, he opened the French doors to breathe in the mint and bougainvillea, look out at the wading pool, the dark gardens, the stucco wall covered in ivy and Spanish moss.
If someone were perched on that wall with a rifle, though . . .
What would they see? He’d left the lights off behind him. He could take a peek out there at least.
He turned his chair and slipped a finger between the drapes. He looked out through the slit at the stucco wall the color of a new penny and the one orange tree he could see.
The boy stood in front of the tree, wearing a white sailor suit with matching bloomer pants. He cocked his head, as if he hadn’t expected to see Joe, and then he skipped away. Didn’t walk. Skipped.
Before he knew he was doing it, Joe threw back the drapes and stared out at his still and empty yard.
In the next instant, he pictured a bullet leaving a rifle and pushed his chair back, let the drapes fall over the doors.
He wheeled the chair away from the window and stopped where two of his bookcases met in a V. As he sat there, the boy walked past his office door and headed for the stairs.
The chair spun when Joe left it. He reached the hall and climbed the empty stairs. He checked in on Tomas and found him sleeping. He looked under his bed. Took a look in his closet. Once more, down on his knees, to look under the bed. Nothing.
He moved through the other bedrooms. A vein pulsed under his jaw. The flesh nearest to his spine felt as if ants were crawling under it, and the air in the house was so cold he could feel it in his teeth.
He searched the entire house. When he was done, he entered his bedroom, where he expected to find the boy, but the room was empty.
Joe sat awake well into the night. When the boy had passed by his office door, his features had been more distinct than on previous encounters. This allowed Joe to confirm a clear family resemblance. He had the long Coughlin jaw and small ears. If, in that moment,he’d turned and looked directly at him, Joe wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d done so with the face of his father.
But why would his father take the form of a child? Even when his father had been a child, Joe doubted he’d ever seemed
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