in my basement.
““I bought this so you could put family and personal photos in it,” Abby sniffed. “This is so tacky.”
I thought that was unkind. Jeter and Manning were terrific athletes and solid citizens. And while the Mick’s reputation as a person had suffered in recent years, my grandfather had regaled me with stories about how the great Yankee had blasted tape measure home runs while basically bandaged from head to toe. Most modern ballplayers — not Jeter, of course, — went on the disabled list with hangnails. And Secretariat won the Belmont by 31 lengths.
“I don’t have any family, any close family, still around,” I said. “Just some cousins, but I wouldn’t know where to get shots of them.”
“You don’t put cousins in a photo cube. And not a horse!”
“I have lots of photos of my parents at home,” I said defensively. “Grandparents, too. I don’t consider them cube material.”
“What about Alice?”
“I don’t have any pictures of her.”
“Get one, for God’s sake.”
In truth, I had been thinking of doing just that, even though I realized that putting a photo of your lover in your office was a sign of commitment.
“Maybe.”
“Just do it, boss. And when you put it in the cube, lose the nag. Alice might get the wrong impression.”
Abby put the cube down.
“So, what’s this Maples guy to you? If it’s a missing person’s case, I don’t like our chances. I know you think you can find a virgin in a whore house, but this guy ain’t gonna be found.”
“Vernon Maples was in my outfit in Afghanistan. He was also in my living room last night. He shot me with a tranquilizer dart and ate three slices of my Joe & Pat’s pizza.”
“No wonder you want to find him. Best pizza on Staten Island.”
Abby stared at me.
“You’re not joking, are you?”
I stood up and opened my shirt to show her the bruise where the dart went in.
“I’ll say one thing for you, boss. You’re never boring. What did he want?”
“If I tell you, you might be involved in a crime that could lose you that license you don’t even have yet. So, for now, I’m going to keep you in the dark.”
“I know what you’ve been downloading from the Internet, boss. I can put two and two together.”
“Conjecture isn’t knowledge, Abs. Let’s keep it that way.”
“The cops are looking for a black man. The one thing I know for sure about Vernon Maples is that he was white.”
“That bother you? The black man thing?”
“Only if they scapegoat a brother.”
“Not going to happen, Abs.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I gave her what I thought was my most enigmatic smile.
“Never mind,” she said.
***
Mac was already seated when I got to the restaurant. He was deep into a book and only looked up when I slid into our booth.
“More Civil War?”
He held up the book so I could see the title: Crossroads of Freedom: Antietam (Pivotal Moments in American History) by James M. McPherson. Mac’s enthusiasms were usually short-lived, but intense. Currently, he was devouring everything he could get his hands on about the Civil War.
“Did you know, Alton, that more Americans died at Antietam than died on D-Day at Normandy. About 6,000. Only about 2,500 at Normandy.”
“Double your pleasure, double your fun.”
“What does a Doublemint slogan have to do with anything?”
“In the Civil War, both sides were Americans. Tends to inflate the casualties.”
Cormac sighed.
“Even taking that into account,” he said, “The casualties were higher, considering the number of troops involved. It was a pivotal moment in American history. Dashed the South’s hope of British intervention because it allowed Lincoln to issue the Emancipation Proclamation. The Brits wanted to fight for cotton, but not for slavery.”
A waitress appeared propitiously and Mac ditched the Civil War, the prospect of food vanquishing both the Army of the Potomac and the Army of Northern Virginia. We
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