Read Online A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 by Mary Campisi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Campisi
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bit of everything in this place: answering phones, filing, typing, checking time cards—” She stopped herself mid-sentence. “My Lord, but we are so sorry about Charlie.” She shook her head but the curls didn’t move. “So very sorry.”
“Thank you.” Did everyone know him, know about him? Know about Miriam and Lily, too?
“He was a wonderful man,” Betty Rafferty went on, “wonderful. There wasn’t a kinder person than Charlie Blacksworth. He helped us all out at one time or another and I mean all of us, no matter who we were, he didn’t care. Me, when my mother died and the lawyer tried to tie up her estate and charge a ton of legal fees, Charlie made a few phone calls and it was done—” she snapped her bony fingers “—just like that.”
“And then, when Ned Glezinski’s landlord was gonna kick him out for not making his rent payments, Charlie stepped in.” She lowered her voice. “We all thought he loaned Ned money but nobody ever said, least of all Charlie. Anyways, he showed Ned how to do a budget, how to put a little aside in savings for a rainy day, and I’ll be darned if Ned didn’t buy a two-bedroom house down on Edgar Street last year.”
Christine didn’t want to hear that any good had come of her father’s stay here, didn’t want to even consider the possibility that he was missed by this town as much as he was missed by his friends and associates in Chicago. This place wasn’t his home. These people had no right to Charles Blacksworth. They were nothing but pirates, bootlegging his name and his identity.
“And then there were Freda and Arthur Peorelli and their son, Giovanni,” she went on, stopped. “I think”—she scratched her pointy chin—“I should stop before the boss comes in.” She lowered her voice, leaned forward. “He and Charlie didn’t quite see eye to eye.”
“No?”
Betty shook her head again. “No, ma’am, they sure didn’t, but then you must know that.”
“Actually, I—”
“Betty!”
Christine turned and spotted the scruffy old man standing behind her, clad in jeans and a red flannel shirt rolled up to his forearms. He was wiry and small with shocks of thick, white hair sticking out from under a John Deere ball cap, cocked back on his forehead. Gray white stubble peppered his cheeks, a stark contrast to the weather-beaten tan on the rest of his face. But it was his eyes that held her. They were a brilliant blue, and they were trained on her.
“Christine.”
She managed to nod.
The man shot a glance toward the receptionist area. “Been flappin’ your gums again, Betty?” he asked, lifting a bushy white brow.
“Just making Christine feel welcome, Jack, that’s all.”
“I’ll take over from here.” He thrust out a work-worn hand. “Jack Finnegan, otherwise known as ‘Old Man Jack.’”
“Mr. Finnegan.” She reached for his outstretched hand and felt the calluses. “You’re just the person I came to see.”
“Don’t think so, not if you came to see Mr. Finnegan. Like I said, I’m Jack or Old Man Jack, plain and simple.” He threw back his head and laughed, revealing random spots of silver and a row of bridgework.
“Jack then.”
“Let’s go into my office,” he said, winking at her. “And, Betty, not a word of this to the boss, you got it?”
Betty lifted a blue-veined hand, pinched a thumb and forefinger together and ran it along her lips. “I’m zipped, Jack.”
“Good. Keep it that way. No slip-ups.”
“Aye-aye.” Then, “Nice to meet you, Christine. Your father was a true saint.”
“Come on, before she starts praying the rosary.”
Christine followed Jack Finnegan down a narrow hallway. There were offices on both sides, four altogether, small squares filled with carpet, computer, an occasional metal filing cabinet and a desk. Jack moved past the first three, stepped into the last one, which had a copy machine where a desk would be, and six filing cabinets along the back wall. There
“Thank you.” Did everyone know him, know about him? Know about Miriam and Lily, too?
“He was a wonderful man,” Betty Rafferty went on, “wonderful. There wasn’t a kinder person than Charlie Blacksworth. He helped us all out at one time or another and I mean all of us, no matter who we were, he didn’t care. Me, when my mother died and the lawyer tried to tie up her estate and charge a ton of legal fees, Charlie made a few phone calls and it was done—” she snapped her bony fingers “—just like that.”
“And then, when Ned Glezinski’s landlord was gonna kick him out for not making his rent payments, Charlie stepped in.” She lowered her voice. “We all thought he loaned Ned money but nobody ever said, least of all Charlie. Anyways, he showed Ned how to do a budget, how to put a little aside in savings for a rainy day, and I’ll be darned if Ned didn’t buy a two-bedroom house down on Edgar Street last year.”
Christine didn’t want to hear that any good had come of her father’s stay here, didn’t want to even consider the possibility that he was missed by this town as much as he was missed by his friends and associates in Chicago. This place wasn’t his home. These people had no right to Charles Blacksworth. They were nothing but pirates, bootlegging his name and his identity.
“And then there were Freda and Arthur Peorelli and their son, Giovanni,” she went on, stopped. “I think”—she scratched her pointy chin—“I should stop before the boss comes in.” She lowered her voice, leaned forward. “He and Charlie didn’t quite see eye to eye.”
“No?”
Betty shook her head again. “No, ma’am, they sure didn’t, but then you must know that.”
“Actually, I—”
“Betty!”
Christine turned and spotted the scruffy old man standing behind her, clad in jeans and a red flannel shirt rolled up to his forearms. He was wiry and small with shocks of thick, white hair sticking out from under a John Deere ball cap, cocked back on his forehead. Gray white stubble peppered his cheeks, a stark contrast to the weather-beaten tan on the rest of his face. But it was his eyes that held her. They were a brilliant blue, and they were trained on her.
“Christine.”
She managed to nod.
The man shot a glance toward the receptionist area. “Been flappin’ your gums again, Betty?” he asked, lifting a bushy white brow.
“Just making Christine feel welcome, Jack, that’s all.”
“I’ll take over from here.” He thrust out a work-worn hand. “Jack Finnegan, otherwise known as ‘Old Man Jack.’”
“Mr. Finnegan.” She reached for his outstretched hand and felt the calluses. “You’re just the person I came to see.”
“Don’t think so, not if you came to see Mr. Finnegan. Like I said, I’m Jack or Old Man Jack, plain and simple.” He threw back his head and laughed, revealing random spots of silver and a row of bridgework.
“Jack then.”
“Let’s go into my office,” he said, winking at her. “And, Betty, not a word of this to the boss, you got it?”
Betty lifted a blue-veined hand, pinched a thumb and forefinger together and ran it along her lips. “I’m zipped, Jack.”
“Good. Keep it that way. No slip-ups.”
“Aye-aye.” Then, “Nice to meet you, Christine. Your father was a true saint.”
“Come on, before she starts praying the rosary.”
Christine followed Jack Finnegan down a narrow hallway. There were offices on both sides, four altogether, small squares filled with carpet, computer, an occasional metal filing cabinet and a desk. Jack moved past the first three, stepped into the last one, which had a copy machine where a desk would be, and six filing cabinets along the back wall. There
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