Read Online Park Lane South, Queens by Mary Anne Kelly - Free Book Online Page A

to the roof of her mouth like a host at communion. And you couldn’t beat sharp mustard. You really couldn’t. Murmuring confusion seeped from the separate television camps the family was divided into around the house. She had the feeling, almost hope and almost fear, that nothing would ever happen again. The milk was ice cold and she drank it greedily. A burst of laughter from inside lit up her face and she smiled with them at some new antic of Michaelaen’s. Or someone’s. It didn’t matter. She was with them, apart but close.
    The car that had just passed turned around, hesitated, then stopped right in front of the house. Some sporty little car. A light went on in Iris von Lillienfeld’s back porch and the Mayor crossed over the street. A big man climbed out of the car, studied something in his hand and proceeded up the front walk. Claire leaned forward. It was that—that drug dealer from this afternoon! A thrill of something went right through her.
    â€œThis 113-04?” He shielded his eyes from the lantern, then saw her shocked face. Jesus! It was that very same cuckoo from the pizza place!
    â€œYou’ve got a lot of nerve,” she reprimanded him, her tone dating back to a decade of tight-assed, condescending grammar school nuns.
    â€œLook, lady. Before you get all bent out of shape, I didn’t come here to see you!”
    Claire dropped the whole box of slides. Lady? How old did he think she was? Had he followed her home?
    â€œDoes a Mr. Stanley Breslinsky live here?” he continued, politely bending down to help her pick up the cascade of slides.
    â€œNo!” she snatched one right out of his hand. He had wrists thick with enemy black hairs. “You’ve put your fingerprints all over the slide.” She pulled her hair out of her eyes. “Yes, he does live here,” she said, annoyed, in fact, that he hadn’t followed her home.
    Married, concluded Johnny, hating her.
    â€œDad!” called Claire. Now he hated her more.
    No one came and the two of them glared at each other. “Dad!” she called again, louder, refusing to get up and give those scornful eyes a good shot at her short shorts.
    Stan looked through the front screen. “Oh,” he said, peering out at Johnny. “I didn’t hear the dog.”
    â€œHe took off,” Claire complained. “This man would like to speak with you.”
    This man, Johnny mimicked her inside his head. Like, “this creep.” “Detective Benedetto,” he said. “I’m with the 102nd. You stopped off there this morning?”
    â€œYes?” Stan looked around guiltily, then remembered Mary was off to church.
    â€œI wonder if I could have a word with you?”
    â€œSure!” Stan opened the door and ushered Johnny in. What a hulk of a guy! He slapped him on the back and directed him into his “study,” a room dedicated to one cannon after the next. Wherever you looked there were cannons, homemade crossbows, hunks of wood in various stages of finish. Johnny gave a low whistle. “You make this stuff?” he eyed Stan, impressed.
    â€œWhat? This?” Stan waved aside the room as though he’d never seen it. “Just a hobby. Old man like me. Got to have something to do now, don’t I?”
    Johnny picked up a rosewood and brass miniature of exquisite proportion.
    â€œThis is beautiful.”
    â€œThat’s the Gustavus Adolphus,” Stan glowed. “Swedish.” If Michael had lived … Stan started to think, till he caught himself.
    â€œGod. I’ve never seen work like this. Look at the wheels!”
    â€œYou have a good eye. Most people don’t notice detail like that. The wheels happen to have been the most difficult of all. I had to study to be a wheelwright in order to make them. Lots of time, they took, lots of time. We fired one last weekend. That’s why there’s still a little powder burn near the