a flash of recognition. "You. You the one.
Joey! Oh, Madre di Dio!" She clenched the fist that wasn't,
holding the robe together and struck herself hard on the chest
repeatedly until her husband restrained her.
"Mrs. D'Amico . . ."
She shrieked and shook her head violently. She began
to wail. "Why you here? Why you don't leave us alone? Why, why?"
"To try to save Marco for you, Mrs. D'Amico,"
I said softly. "To try to save your other son."
She was trembling but stopped crying. She glared at
me, her nostrils flaring. She gave her husband a short command in
Italian. He protested, and she switched to English. "Sit, sit!"
He gave me a murderous look and released her arm.
They took the sofa.
"What you mean, save Marco?"
I decided not to repeat my Joey preamble. "Mrs.
D'Amico, have you seen Marco since yesterday afternoon?"
She bit her lip. "What you mean, save Marco?"
I thought of the Little Prince, who once he asked a
question, would keep asking it until it was answered. I decided to
play too.
"Mrs. D'Amico, have you seen him?"
She bit her lip again and moved her head no. I looked
up at her husband, who glared, but showed no as well. ·
"I have reason to believe Marco is bothering the
older couple whose house I used to watch the warehouse."
"The colored and the white woman?" she
asked.
“ Yes.”
"What you mean, bother?" she said.
"Phone calls."
"Look," said Mr. D'Amico, "Marco, he
don't live here no more. He don't make no phone calls from here."
“ It doesn't matter where he's calling from," I
explained. "If he threatens them, he gets in trouble with the
police."
"Marco don't make those calls," said Mrs.
D'Amico.
"I think he did. He called me, too. It was his
voice, Mrs. D'Arnico."
"No," she said, then louder, "no!"
"Why you telling us this things," said Mr.
D'Amico warily.
"I was hoping you could talk to him, persuade
him to stop before he gets in trouble for it."
D'Amico looked helpless. His wife sunk her face into
her free hand, and then went to her pocket, tugging out some crumpled
Kleenex to stem the next wave of tears.
"He don't listen no more," said the
husband. "He almost as old as you. He don't listen."
Mrs. D'Amico was crying again, choking off sobs in
her throat.
"The Coopers, the other couple, are a lot like
you. Only they don't have neighbors to look after them, like you do.
You can guess why that is. Cooper, the husband, was a marine. He can
take care of Marco if he has to. So can I.”
"Marco got friends," he said aggressively.
"Lotsa friends."
"I know," I said. "I met one
downstairs, remember? But his friends won't back him on this sort of
thing. This isn't vendetta, Mr. D'Amico. We both know that. Joey set
fire to that warehouse and left the watchman to die. I shot Joey
because he shot at me. If Marco hurts someone because of that, nobody
will stand with him. Nobody will avenge him, and you'll have lost
both of your sons."
Mrs. D'Amico let out a confirming wail.
"Out!" snapped D'Amico. "You outta my
house!"
I got up and left the apartment. I closed the door
gently behind me and descended the staircase. As I stepped out into
the sunlight, I looked over at my emissary. He and the group stared
back at me. I nodded without smiling and walked back toward my car. I
was glad the D'Amicos' closed windows kept her crying from drifting
down to street level.
Seven
-•-
I DROVE BACK TOWARD MY APPARTMENT. I CIRCLED around
my block twice, then parked two blocks away and walked to a coffee
shop roughly diagonal to my building. I sat and nursed a hot cocoa
for half an hour in a bay window, watching. I didn't see anything
unusual, like someone parked in a car for an unreasonable period of
time.
I paid for my cocoa and crossed the street. I walked
quietly down the alley that turned behind my building, and peeked
around the corner. Nobody in sight. I walked behind my building and
hopped over the wooden fence separating our minimal patio area from
the alley tar. I used my key on the back
Joey! Oh, Madre di Dio!" She clenched the fist that wasn't,
holding the robe together and struck herself hard on the chest
repeatedly until her husband restrained her.
"Mrs. D'Amico . . ."
She shrieked and shook her head violently. She began
to wail. "Why you here? Why you don't leave us alone? Why, why?"
"To try to save Marco for you, Mrs. D'Amico,"
I said softly. "To try to save your other son."
She was trembling but stopped crying. She glared at
me, her nostrils flaring. She gave her husband a short command in
Italian. He protested, and she switched to English. "Sit, sit!"
He gave me a murderous look and released her arm.
They took the sofa.
"What you mean, save Marco?"
I decided not to repeat my Joey preamble. "Mrs.
D'Amico, have you seen Marco since yesterday afternoon?"
She bit her lip. "What you mean, save Marco?"
I thought of the Little Prince, who once he asked a
question, would keep asking it until it was answered. I decided to
play too.
"Mrs. D'Amico, have you seen him?"
She bit her lip again and moved her head no. I looked
up at her husband, who glared, but showed no as well. ·
"I have reason to believe Marco is bothering the
older couple whose house I used to watch the warehouse."
"The colored and the white woman?" she
asked.
“ Yes.”
"What you mean, bother?" she said.
"Phone calls."
"Look," said Mr. D'Amico, "Marco, he
don't live here no more. He don't make no phone calls from here."
“ It doesn't matter where he's calling from," I
explained. "If he threatens them, he gets in trouble with the
police."
"Marco don't make those calls," said Mrs.
D'Amico.
"I think he did. He called me, too. It was his
voice, Mrs. D'Arnico."
"No," she said, then louder, "no!"
"Why you telling us this things," said Mr.
D'Amico warily.
"I was hoping you could talk to him, persuade
him to stop before he gets in trouble for it."
D'Amico looked helpless. His wife sunk her face into
her free hand, and then went to her pocket, tugging out some crumpled
Kleenex to stem the next wave of tears.
"He don't listen no more," said the
husband. "He almost as old as you. He don't listen."
Mrs. D'Amico was crying again, choking off sobs in
her throat.
"The Coopers, the other couple, are a lot like
you. Only they don't have neighbors to look after them, like you do.
You can guess why that is. Cooper, the husband, was a marine. He can
take care of Marco if he has to. So can I.”
"Marco got friends," he said aggressively.
"Lotsa friends."
"I know," I said. "I met one
downstairs, remember? But his friends won't back him on this sort of
thing. This isn't vendetta, Mr. D'Amico. We both know that. Joey set
fire to that warehouse and left the watchman to die. I shot Joey
because he shot at me. If Marco hurts someone because of that, nobody
will stand with him. Nobody will avenge him, and you'll have lost
both of your sons."
Mrs. D'Amico let out a confirming wail.
"Out!" snapped D'Amico. "You outta my
house!"
I got up and left the apartment. I closed the door
gently behind me and descended the staircase. As I stepped out into
the sunlight, I looked over at my emissary. He and the group stared
back at me. I nodded without smiling and walked back toward my car. I
was glad the D'Amicos' closed windows kept her crying from drifting
down to street level.
Seven
-•-
I DROVE BACK TOWARD MY APPARTMENT. I CIRCLED around
my block twice, then parked two blocks away and walked to a coffee
shop roughly diagonal to my building. I sat and nursed a hot cocoa
for half an hour in a bay window, watching. I didn't see anything
unusual, like someone parked in a car for an unreasonable period of
time.
I paid for my cocoa and crossed the street. I walked
quietly down the alley that turned behind my building, and peeked
around the corner. Nobody in sight. I walked behind my building and
hopped over the wooden fence separating our minimal patio area from
the alley tar. I used my key on the back
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