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

wick.”
    â€œYou’re kidding! You mean these things really work?”
    â€œIndeed they do. The cannonballs are in the limber, there.”
    Johnny flipped open the miniature lock and opened it. It eased open like a well-oiled treasure box. Not only were there twenty little cannonballs lined up neatly on a polished shelf, but a proper bucket, a mallet, and a pickax as well, all gleaming in rosewood and brass. A delicate white cord with gold-nuggeted ends was waxed, braided, and coiled.
    â€œBut you’re an armorer!” Johnny exploded.
    Stan was wiping his hands on an old piece of shammy. He looked up through his bushy eyebrows and studied Johnny. “Not many people know what a small-arms expert is, either.”
    Fascinated, Johnny turned the smooth wheel of the Rodman. “Yeah, well, there aren’t too many of them around. I got to know one of them in Nam. He was a genius with explosives.”
    â€œReally? That’s what I did in World War II. Demolition. We blew up the swastika of Nürnberg.” He grinned. “Among other things.”
    Stan and Johnny gazed at each other with final approval. The record came to an end and Stan hurried over to flip it. “Ah, Puccini,” he sighed.
    â€œSir?”
    â€œPuccini.”
    â€œSounds good,” Johnny scratched his forehead, embarrassed.
    â€œSo,” Stan sank into his chair, “down to tacks.”
    Johnny reminded him of the conflicting numbers he’d reported.
    â€œOh, yes. You see, my daughter saw this car, and—”
    Johnny looked up at Carmela pirouetting into the room. She was wearing a tuxedo and stiletto heels. Her mouth was an indignant fuschia.
    â€œMy daughter,” Stan shrugged. “Carmela.”
    â€œDad, my car won’t start.”
    â€œIt’s just the butterfly, knucklehead. It always is.”
    â€œYes, but I’d rather take yours, if I may.” She looked Johnny over. From the lines of his car she had thought he’d be something. He had good teeth all right, but his Izod La Coste shirt was not a La Coste at all. It was a counterfeit. What’s more, it looked as though it had been slept in. He was obviously ill-bred. Didn’t even stand up. Stan fished in his pocket for keys and handed them over. “Be careful,” he warned and she started to leave.
    â€œYou the one who saw the car?” Johnny stopped her.
    Carmela gripped her chest. “Me? Of course not. That was Claire.”
    â€œThat’s my other daughter … on the porch.”
    â€œYes, she lives on the porch,” Carmela smiled.
    â€œOh, she doesn’t live on the porch. Sometimes she sleeps out there.”
    â€œEvery night since she’s come home.”
    â€œYou see, Claire’s been living overseas—”
    â€œOver a tea shop. In the Himalayas.”
    â€œYes. Well. She’s not used to being back in civilization yet. And she … she saw this car early in the morning but she thought it would be better if I went down and told about it.”
    Johnny’s shoulder’s sank. “I’m afraid I’ll have to speak to her then.”
    â€œOh, no!” they both said.
    Johnny looked at them.
    Carmela untangled her bow tie and pulled it up into her hair. “You see, Claire has this thing about policemen.”
    â€œShe won’t talk to you,” Stan agreed. “I mean, she’d rather not.”
    A gigantic funeral arrangement came in on a pair of men’s legs.
    â€œFreddy!” Carmela cried. “Gladiola!”
    Freddy struggled in and lowered the flowers onto Stan’s cluttered desk. He was dressed a la Miami Vice and his hair was shaved stylishly over his ears with a brilliantined dip in the front. “From the restaurant.” His lips pursed of their own accord. “I’ve got so many I don’t know what to do with them all. I’ll bring more by tomorrow when I come to pick up