parentitis.
Padillo entered the office twenty minutes later to find McCorkle sitting at the partners desk, glumly drinking Irish whiskey.
“Somebody else die?” Padillo said as he located a glass and poured himself a measure of Bushmills.
“Childhood,” McCorkle said.
“Well, it couldn’t last forever—not even yours.”
“Erika’s. They somehow messed up her college credits and discovered she had more than enough to graduate now instead of in June. We’re celebrating tonight. You’re invited.”
“You’re sure it’s a celebration and not a memorial service?”
“You didn’t see the smile,” McCorkle said, once more staring into his glass.
“What smile?”
“The one Haynes gave her.”
“Ah. That one.”
“Exactly.”
“Don’t worry,” Padillo said. “The Haynes kid is four or five times as smart as his old man ever was, which is very bright indeed, and maybe ten times as honest, which brings him up to about average. But if you really need something to brood about these long January nights, think on this: who does Granville Haynes remind you of—other than Steady? Take your time.”
McCorkle continued to stare down into his drink. He was still staring down into it fifteen seconds later when he said, “Of you.”
“And somebody else.”
“Who?”
“Yourself,” Padillo said.
McCorkle only grunted.
“Erika could do worse,” Padillo said.
McCorkle finally looked up. “How?”
Chapter 8
They scarcely talked until Erika McCorkle stopped her five-year-old Oldsmobile Cutlass for a red light at Connecticut and R. She indicated the venerable Schwartz drugstore on the intersection’s northwest corner and said, “I used to hang out there when I was a real little kid.”
“How little?” Haynes said.
“Six or seven. The world’s two fastest soda jerks worked there. One had a bad leg; the other had terribly crossed eyes and both must’ve been well over forty. Pop sometimes took me there for what he said were the best ice cream sodas in town. We’d sit at the fountain and watch the two guys work. God, they were fast. I remember Pop kept telling them they were an endangered species. Think they’re still there?”
“We could find out,” Haynes said.
“You’re serious?”
“Sure.”
As the light changed to green, Erika McCorkle spotted an empty metered parking space just south of Larimer’s market, raced a BMW for it and won. She stopped parallel with the car in front of the empty space, shifted into reverse, spun the steering wheel to the right, backed up, spun the steering wheel again, this time to the left, and shot the Cutlass into the empty space, its two right wheels coming to a stop no more than three inches from the curb.
Haynes dug into a pants pocket for some quarters to feed the meter. “Very smooth,” he said.
“More slick than smooth.”
They crossed Connecticut on the green light only to find themselves marooned on the center traffic island. “When you were hanging out with the sandwich and soda artists,” Haynes said, “did you live around here?”
“My folks’ve always lived within a mile of Dupont Circle. It’s because Pop likes to walk to work although lately he’s been taking a lot of cabs.”
“Nothing wrong with him, is there?”
“Yes,” she said, stepping off the curb as the light changed. “He’s lazy.” She glanced at Haynes. “Known him long?”
“We talked once in nineteen seventy-four. It was my eighteenth birthday and Steady took me to dinner at Mac’s Place. Your father stopped by the table and later sent over two cognacs that made me feel all grown-up.”
“That makes you thirty-three then, doesn’t it?” she said.
“Not until August.”
There were no longer any soda jerks or a fountain for them to work behind in the Schwartz drugstore. The young Nigerian pharmacist in the rear told Haynes the fountain had been gone for at least ten years, maybe even twelve. The drugstore now seemed to concentrate on
Padillo entered the office twenty minutes later to find McCorkle sitting at the partners desk, glumly drinking Irish whiskey.
“Somebody else die?” Padillo said as he located a glass and poured himself a measure of Bushmills.
“Childhood,” McCorkle said.
“Well, it couldn’t last forever—not even yours.”
“Erika’s. They somehow messed up her college credits and discovered she had more than enough to graduate now instead of in June. We’re celebrating tonight. You’re invited.”
“You’re sure it’s a celebration and not a memorial service?”
“You didn’t see the smile,” McCorkle said, once more staring into his glass.
“What smile?”
“The one Haynes gave her.”
“Ah. That one.”
“Exactly.”
“Don’t worry,” Padillo said. “The Haynes kid is four or five times as smart as his old man ever was, which is very bright indeed, and maybe ten times as honest, which brings him up to about average. But if you really need something to brood about these long January nights, think on this: who does Granville Haynes remind you of—other than Steady? Take your time.”
McCorkle continued to stare down into his drink. He was still staring down into it fifteen seconds later when he said, “Of you.”
“And somebody else.”
“Who?”
“Yourself,” Padillo said.
McCorkle only grunted.
“Erika could do worse,” Padillo said.
McCorkle finally looked up. “How?”
Chapter 8
They scarcely talked until Erika McCorkle stopped her five-year-old Oldsmobile Cutlass for a red light at Connecticut and R. She indicated the venerable Schwartz drugstore on the intersection’s northwest corner and said, “I used to hang out there when I was a real little kid.”
“How little?” Haynes said.
“Six or seven. The world’s two fastest soda jerks worked there. One had a bad leg; the other had terribly crossed eyes and both must’ve been well over forty. Pop sometimes took me there for what he said were the best ice cream sodas in town. We’d sit at the fountain and watch the two guys work. God, they were fast. I remember Pop kept telling them they were an endangered species. Think they’re still there?”
“We could find out,” Haynes said.
“You’re serious?”
“Sure.”
As the light changed to green, Erika McCorkle spotted an empty metered parking space just south of Larimer’s market, raced a BMW for it and won. She stopped parallel with the car in front of the empty space, shifted into reverse, spun the steering wheel to the right, backed up, spun the steering wheel again, this time to the left, and shot the Cutlass into the empty space, its two right wheels coming to a stop no more than three inches from the curb.
Haynes dug into a pants pocket for some quarters to feed the meter. “Very smooth,” he said.
“More slick than smooth.”
They crossed Connecticut on the green light only to find themselves marooned on the center traffic island. “When you were hanging out with the sandwich and soda artists,” Haynes said, “did you live around here?”
“My folks’ve always lived within a mile of Dupont Circle. It’s because Pop likes to walk to work although lately he’s been taking a lot of cabs.”
“Nothing wrong with him, is there?”
“Yes,” she said, stepping off the curb as the light changed. “He’s lazy.” She glanced at Haynes. “Known him long?”
“We talked once in nineteen seventy-four. It was my eighteenth birthday and Steady took me to dinner at Mac’s Place. Your father stopped by the table and later sent over two cognacs that made me feel all grown-up.”
“That makes you thirty-three then, doesn’t it?” she said.
“Not until August.”
There were no longer any soda jerks or a fountain for them to work behind in the Schwartz drugstore. The young Nigerian pharmacist in the rear told Haynes the fountain had been gone for at least ten years, maybe even twelve. The drugstore now seemed to concentrate on
Similar Books
