The Best American Mystery Stories 2004

Tom Larsen Lids

From New Millennium Writings

Timothy “Lids” Picone has always been partial to the smell, but this guy is too much. Eight, ten times a day he hears him hacking his lungs out. Minutes later he can smell it, right through the fucking wall. Stanley calls him the pothead or sometimes just “the pot.” Picone doesn’t see how the guy can function. But he does function.

The walls are so thin he can pick up everything with his stethoscope. He’s heard some things he’d like to forget. The pothead really plays the role. Flashy clothes, flashy car. His sound system could do serious structural damage. Sometimes Picone has to plug his ears to sleep at night.

It’s been three weeks since he moved in. Stanley put up the deposit but the rent came out of Picone’s pocket. It should be well worth it. Every Friday night the pothead checks out with an empty duffel bag and when he comes home the bag is full. The rest of the week is traffic, all hours of the day and night. Mostly yuppies and college kids. Funny how dopers look like everyone else these days. Except for Maurice. The dreadlocks and gangster shades are a dead giveaway. Droopy eyelids just like Picone’s. The droopy lids make Maurice look dangerous. Picone’s just make him look sleepy. All things considered, it’s better that way.

Maurice usually arrives with an entourage and a lizard skin attaché case. Might as well have “Drug Dealer” stenciled on the side. Picone can hear the snap of latches through the wall. The pothead’s door and windows are wired and he has a wall safe in his bedroom. He’s heard the tumblers clicking.

According to Stanley, the pothead and Maurice are planning a major transaction — cocaine by the kilo. Picone wishes they’d get on with it.

He eats the rest of the tuna salad while working on the Matterhorn. Seven completed puzzles are spaced over the living room door, separated by pathways. As he works Picone listens to classical music on the radio. His attention is perfectly divided.

He got into the puzzles while he was at Rahway. For a time he had them all over his cell but the guards broke them up in a roust and then the cons started stealing pieces just to aggravate him. Funny, he had to wait until he got out of the joint to do his puzzles in peace.

He knows them by heart and each one triggers a different response. Childhood memories that refuse to focus. Love affairs that never happened. He studies the pattern of bark on the pine tree in the foreground. The mountain and the lilting strains of a violin combine to bring tears to his eyes. Anymore he can cry at the drop of a hat.

Sometimes he dreams about taking a trip around the world, to visit the actual sites of his puzzles. The farthest Picone’s ever been from New Jersey is Las Vegas, two years ago on a job. He saw a Vegas puzzle in a casino gift shop — an aerial view of the Strip at night. But it was an old one. Sammy Davis was still at the Sands.

His favorite is the one of the Golden Gate Bridge towers poking up through the fog. He can stare at it for hours. The fog so thick you could scoop out a hunk and stick it in your pocket. He used to wonder how the photographer knew it would be that way, but then Stanley told him the fog rolls in like that all the time in Frisco. Stanley’s been around. Picone and Stanley met in prison. In fact. Stanley was one of the cons who would steal his puzzle pieces. He claimed the puzzles were making Picone crazy. Stanley ought to see this.

The pothead turns his television on. The tinkly piano of The Young and the Restless comes through the wall and in less than a minute he smells the reefer. Like clockwork, this one. An hour later the fat girl with the jangly bracelets shows up and then three yuppies in business suits. The doorman must be on the payroll.

In the afternoon Picone walks down to play his number. On his way back he runs into the pothead coming out of the building. They smile and exchange nods.

“You’re the new guy in 312,” the pothead says.

“That’s right.”

“Jack Mercer.” He reaches for Picone’s hand. “I’m your next door neighbor.”

“Lou... Lou Dorsey.”

“Listen Lou, I’ve been meaning to tell you. If it gets too loud in my place just give a thump on the wall. I know how thin those walls are. The guy before you had parrots. It was like living in the goddamn Amazon.”

“No problem. I don’t hear so good.”

“Great! I mean for me. Hey, why don’t you stop over some time? Have a beer.”

“Thanks, maybe I’ll take you up on that.”

“Okay. Look Lou, I gotta run. If you need anything just let me know.” He reaches again for Picone’s hand.

“Will do.”

Mozart and the Matterhorn. Picone imagines himself living in a cabin with a view of the mountain. Not that he’s much of an outdoorsman. The one time he camped out he slipped a disk and ended up in traction. He drops a section of the tree in place and takes a deep drag on his cigarette. The box advertises other mountain puzzles, including Mt. Rushmore in South Dakota. Picone tries to place South Dakota on his mental map but the middle states just run together. When he was a kid his family moved to Ohio for a few months after his old man jumped bail. He can never remember the name of the town but it always seemed to be raining there.

He turns off the radio during the daily Sousa program. Minutes later he hears the elevator door open and the jangle of keys next door. It takes a while for the pothead to unlock all the locks. When he’s inside Picone hears him latching latches and turning deadbolts. What a joke! You could put your fist right through the door.

This morning he took the old name off his mailbox and replaced it with Lou Dorsey. No sense giving the guy a reason to be suspicious.

The moaner drops by and for the rest of the afternoon he is forced to listen to the pothead hammer her into the headboards. He likes to think she’s faking it. During a break in the action he makes a pot of tea and slips a pizza into the microwave. I hinging around an empty apartment would drive most people crazy but Picone doesn’t mind. He admires the sociability of others, the pothead for instance, but he doesn’t envy them. Stanley’s the closest friend he’s got and Picone can’t stand the sight of him.

He eats the pizza standing at the kitchen window. The shadows of the buildings stretch across the street and he can hear the traffic light switch above the intersection. He watches the Asian woman from the grocery store arrange bulbs of garlic in the window. This part of town used to be Italian but the Koreans and Vietnamese have taken over. The old paisanos piss and moan but Picone figures if they wanted it, they never should have sold it.

Up the hill he hears the bells from St. Anthony’s chime four o’clock. Further up he can see the old bleachery water tower. When they were kids Petey Falcone dared him to climb the tower. He can remember Petey sprawled in the grass below, growing smaller as he pulled himself up the ladder. From the top Picone could see the whole city and he was startled by how shabby it looked. A place where nothing good ever happened. Even the trees looked dirty. He circled the narrow catwalk for nearly an hour. When he finally climbed down Petey was gone. Picone never went back there and in thirty years nothing good ever happened.

A sudden knock on the door scatters his thoughts. It’s the pothead, looking casual in linen pants and a silk shirt.

“Howdy neighbor. Mind if I come in?”

“I’m uh, kind of busy right now. Can we make it another time?”

“Hey, no problem. Listen Lou, I’m having some friends over later. Maybe you’d like to stop by?”

“Tell you the truth I haven’t been feeling well lately. The doctor says I need some rest.”

“Gee I’m sorry to hear that.” The pothead tries to see inside but Picone blocks his view. “Tell you what, I’ll see if I can switch this thing to another location. Give you some peace and quiet for a change.”

“Ah hey, you don’t have to do that. I’m one of those guys who can sleep through anything.”

“I insist. Really, it’s no problem. It’s about time somebody else cleaned up the mess.”

“I appreciate the offer but don’t bother. It won’t make any difference to me.”

The pothead heaves a sigh. “To tell you the truth Lou, I’d give anything just to sack out in front of the tube for an evening. Sometimes I get sick of the whole business.”

For a moment he really does look sick of the whole business, but then something shakes him out of it. He tells Picone a Polish joke and a story about someone named Bernie on the seventh floor. Picone feels foolish standing in the hallway. The pothead is making an overture of some kind, but Picone can’t figure it out. Is he queer? Does he suspect something?

“Lou Dorsey... that’s a great name. A movie star name. My real name is — get this — Angus. Can you believe it? Parents are cruel, man. I mean life is hard enough, right?”

“You don’t look like an Angus,” Picone assures him. The guy must suspect something, but what? Picone hasn’t left the apartment for days except to lay in supplies. Maybe that’s it. A world beater like the pothead would find that strange. It is strange.

“You know, you do look a little under the weather, Lou. Ever try vitamins? I’ve been taking them all winter and haven’t had a sniffle.”

“I guess I’ve been a little shaky since the operation.”

“Jesus Lou! You should have said something. Now I’m definitely moving the party to Greta’s place.”

“Seriously, you don’t have to brother.”

“It’s no problem. She lives three blocks away. Believe me, I know what it’s like to be laid up. I broke my leg skiing last year. Nearly went crazy stumbling around my apartment for three months.”

Picone steps back inside hoping to cut him off, but the pothead just keeps rambling. He pushes the door halfway but the pothead moves in closer.

“Give this a try, Lou.” He hands Picone a thin joint. “Might not cure what ails you but you’ll be too blitzed to care.”

Picone waves him off but the pothead reaches over and drops it in his shirt pocket.

“Maybe you’ll change your mind later. If nothing else it will help you sleep. Plus you can watch almost anything on TV.” He gives a wink. “Just don’t try to program your VCR.”

Picone stands with his hand on the doorknob, looking down at the twisted end of the joint in his pocket.

“Thanks. Listen... I’ll talk to you later, okay?” He steps inside and quickly shuts the door.

Stanley calls.

“We’re on for Friday evening, Lids. The Kellehers will be at their daughter’s for the weekend so you won’t have to worry about them. After the deal. Mercer and the nigger should be celebrating at the Club Cabana until the wee hours.”

“How do you know they’ll leave the money here?”

“We’re talking fifty grand at least! What do you think — they’ll have it on them?”

“What if they take it to Maurice’s?”

“The nigger lives in the badlands. Besides, Mercer went to the trouble of having a safe installed. He’ll want to use it.”

“He wants me to come over and have a beer.”

“You talked to him?”

“He stopped me in the parking lot and introduced himself. What could I do?”

“That’s terrific. Did you tell him you were gonna rob him?”

“I told him I was Lou Dorsey. I just had an operation.”

“Jesus, I don’t believe this! Look, I don’t wanna know, okay? Just remember. Friday night. The Kellehers will be away. You should have most of the night.”

“Tell me Stan, where do you get your information? All of a sudden you’re like the fucking CIA.”

“I know somebody. You gotta know people, Lids.”

Martha Kelleher is carrying groceries in from a waiting cab when Picone returns from the diner. He tries to slip past but the old girl stumbles into him at the door.

“Need a hand with those, ma’am?” he offers.

“Why thank you, young man. I declare that doorman hides when he sees me coming.” Her voice is warm and grandmotherly. Picone balances a bag in each arm and follows her into the elevator.

“I live on the third floor,” she tells him.

“I know. I’m your new neighbor, Lou Dorsey.”

“So you’re the Wagner aficionado.” She taps his wrist. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is to be rid of the last one. Tell me, Mr. Dorsey, you’re not a bird lover are you?”

“Not me.” He struggles to push the button. “I don’t think my Dobermans would go for it.”

Mrs. Kelleher stiffens.

“Just kidding.” He grins.

What’s with the charming routine? For weeks he didn’t speak to anyone but the waitress at the diner and now he’s hobnobbing with the neighbors. Stanley would frown on this.

“My husband loathes Wagner. I must admit I find him a bit bombastic myself.” Mrs. Kelleher’s smile gives a hint of former beauty.

“It’s just the radio,” he confesses. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a music buff.”

They step off the elevator into a cloud of marijuana smoke. “This is an outrage!” Mrs. Kelleher waves a hand in front of her face. “My husband says to ignore it but the man has no shame!”

“Aw, it’s not so bad. Reminds me of my youth.”

“Oh you’re just leasing.” Another tap to the wrist. “Anyone can see you’re not involved in such things. You must come in and meet my husband. You can tell him about the Dobermans.”

“No really, I’m expecting a phone call—”

“Nonsense, we’re right next door.” She leans over the doorknob, patiently fitting key to lock. When the door swings open a slight, white-haired man is crouched in the doorway clutching a cast iron skillet.

“Gracious Walter, you were right there! Why didn’t you open the door?”

“I thought you were being robbed,” he says sheepishly. The skillet slips from his hand and crashes to the floor between his feet.

“And what were you going to do, dear?” Mrs. Kelleher brushes past him. “Console me with an omelette?”

“Why no. I was going to leap to your defense.”

“Oh Walter, you’re just like that old man in the hijack movie. The heroic one, remember? Those terrorists swatted him like a fly.”

Picone’s not so sure. He has, in fact, been coldcocked by just such a skillet during an ill-advised burglary some years earlier. His attacker was in his eighties. He sets the groceries on the counter and steps away.

“I really should be going.”

“You must stay for tea.” Martha waves him away from the door. “Walter, this is the young man who was playing The Valkyries the other night. Our new neighbor, Lou Dorsey. Mr. Dorsey? Walter.”

“Mr. Kelleher.” Picone offers his hand. The old man steps over the skillet to take it.

“My boy, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope you’ll excuse the paranoia but it’s not like Martha to bring a handsome young stranger home.” Walter chuckles. “I don’t know what I intended to do with that frying pan, but I’m sure it would have been a humiliation for all of us.”

“Walter is a physical wreck,” Martha explains, herding them along. “I’m surprised he made it all the way to the kitchen without his walker.”

“She’s making that up — the walker part anyway.” Walter gives him a pat on the back. “Although I must admit I’ve seen better days.”

“Oh, he could go anytime.” Martha takes Picone by the arm.

In contrast to his place the Kellehers’ apartment is crammed with furniture. Bookcases and curio cabinets line the walls. They make their way around armoires and davenports to a set of facing sofas. Walter and Picone each take a sofa. Martha hesitates for a second then settles next to her husband.

“Any pets, Mr. Dorsey?” Walter asks.

“No birds. I already checked,” Martha answers. “Tell him what you said, Mr. Dorsey.”

“Aw, I was just being a wise guy.” Picone blushes.

“He said a bird would disturb his Dobermans.”

Walter stifles a groan.

“He was only teasing.” Martha slaps his thigh.

“Walter and I are from Holland originally. We eloped to America when I was eighteen. You know something. Lou? We never looked back.” Martha nods emphatically. They are into their second round of brandies and Haydn is playing ever so softly above their conversation. Picone wonders what happened to the tea.

“You didn’t like Holland?” he asks.

“It’s a lovely country, but we were young and ambitious. Walter saw himself as a New York gadabout jumping in and out of taxis. I planned to spend my life shopping.”

“You did dear,” Walter reminds her. “You see, Lou, when people come here for the first time they generally assume we moved here from a large house. That would explain the abundance of furniture. This, however, is not the case. Our Manhattan apartment was smaller still. Martha sees a room as something to be filled.”

“I was preparing for a real home someday, but alas...”

“I’ve never met a Hollander before,” Picone tells them.

“The Dutch have a way of blending in,” the old man gently corrects him. “You probably know dozens without realizing it.”

“Did you live near the windmills?” Picone conjures his puzzle.

“As a matter of fact, we did.” Martha scoots to the edge of the sofa. “Walter and I lived near the sea. His town was twelve miles from mine and every evening he would ride over on his bicycle, right past the windmills.”

They replay the scene in their heads, smiling serenely. These two are a riot.

“What do you do, Lou?” Walter arches an eyebrow.

“I’m in restaurant supplies,” Picone gives his standard response. It’s a line of work he could see himself in if he wasn’t boosting apartments or doing time. It’s also something he can bullshit his way through in a pinch. His cousin Dom is in restaurant supply and all he does is bitch.

“That sounds dangerous,” Martha tugs at the hem of her dress.

“Dangerous?”

“Well, the papers say the restaurant business is run by the Mafia. Those gangsters from Philadelphia.”

“The papers say everything is run by the Mafia. It saves a lot of legwork,” Picone quotes his cousin directly.

There’s a painting lit by a brass lamp above Walter’s head. A night scene — the shadow of an old barn set against a moonlit sky. From where Picone is sitting the moon appears luminescent. He gets up to take a closer look but the effect is the same from any distance.

“Cadmium.” Walter pulls a pipe from a rack built into the sofa.

Picone leans in closer. “In the paint?”

“A popular but imprudent artistic experiment. The man who painted that picture is said to have died from toxic poisoning.”

Picone backs away. Through a gap in the drapes he can see a slice of the city in the fading light. A skewed version of his own view. Behind the washstands, cabinets, and common wall lies another world. Picone’s world. Empty and wasted. An enormous craving for furniture rises within him. Forty-eight years old and nary a couch. What does this say about him? Loser. Convict. Not a single lamp or painting. He lived in a flophouse for two years before moving here, but when he tries to envision his furnishings he gets only vague shapes and general locations.

“My grandparents came over from Palermo in 1924,” he hears himself say.

“Well then they must have come through Ellis Island, as we did sixteen years later.” Walter scrapes at the bowl of his pipe with some sort of instrument.

“My grandfather was a mortician. He worked on Dutch Schultz and Fiorello La Guardia.”

Is he crazy? Why is he telling them this? The truth. His mother grew up in a house filled with stiffs. His grandfather worked into his nineties and toward the end his own deterioration did little to comfort the bereaved. Rather than follow in his in-laws’ footsteps, his own father turned to crime. In the end the old man sold the business and gave his money to the church. The new owners kept the name. Venuto’s. Picone feels a chill every time he passes the place.

“Walter and I have decided to be cremated when the time comes,” Martha says. “Our daughter has agreed to keep our ashes on a particular shelf above the radiator in her den. Frankly, the idea of moldering away is very distasteful.” She wrinkles her nose. “This old body has been good to me and to throw it in a hole when I’m done seems downright disrespectful, if not barbaric.”

“The older you get the more funerals you’re obliged to attend,” Walter adds. “We’ve been to a dozen in the past two years and I must tell you, I always shudder when they lower that box into the ground.”

“Yes. How can we do that to them?” Martha wonders.

“And I, for one, get no consolation from the fact that my flesh will provide nourishment to the lower life forms,” Walter grumbles. “It may be natural but it lacks dignity.”

“Twin Cloisonné urns for us, right Walter?”

“Dignified.”

Martha opens a tin of shortbread cookies and offers them to Picone. As darkness falls she traverses the room, angling gracefully around secretary desks and uncornered corner cabinets to light assorted stained-glass lamps. The soft glow makes Picone want to kick off his shoes.

“My grandfather talked to the dead,” he babbles on. “He would address them by name as he worked and if he asked them a question, he would pause long enough for them to answer.” All true. “The living didn’t really interest him. My grandmother actually ran the business.”

“Ridding the world of its dead. A lucrative profession,” Walter observes.

“But your poor mother, growing up in a mortuary. I don’t see how that could be healthy.” Martha clutches at her collar. Picone thinks back to intermittent periods of refuge in his grandfather’s house. He never once saw a body, but he knew they were there, draped in shrouds in the basement. When Petey Falcone died of leukemia Picone’s grandfather handled the embalming personally. In deference to the family he made Petey look better in death than he ever looked alive.

“The way I figure it, when you’re dead it really doesn’t matter what they do with the body,” Picone shrugs. “It isn’t you anymore. It’s just meat. The thing you gotta remember about cremation is it takes a while. It’s not like they just pop you in the oven. They gotta cook it for a couple of hours.”

Martha winces. “Is that true Waller?”

“I suppose so, dear. It is rather a large... er, piece of meat.”

“Well, I never imagined the exact procedure...” Her face clouds for a moment. “Oh, I don’t care. It’s not like you can feel it.”

“Who’s to say?”

“Stop that Walter. You know how anxious I am about this. Besides, I already bought the urns.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“I’d take this a little more seriously if I were you, Walter. After all, you’re the one who’s hanging by a thread. Perhaps I’ll just have you cremated and see how it goes.”

“That would be the wise thing.”

“You could always freeze him,” Picone suggests.

“Heavens no!” Martha shudders at the thought. “The idea is to avoid the cold. We want to be comfortable, you see.”

Walter fires up the pipe and for a moment his head disappears in a cloud of smoke.

“Spending eternity in an urn might prove tiresome,” he points out.

“They’re lined in satin. I used the lining from one of your old violin cases.”

It turns out that Walter Kelleher was a violinist in the Philharmonic orchestra before arthritis forced him into a well-furnished retirement. For the next hour he reflects upon a life unknown to the likes of Picone. Travel, culture, the arts, the artists. He tells colorful anecdotes about symphony screwballs and society geezers and describes the world’s great concert halls in vivid detail.

“You don’t strike me as the Wagner type.” He jabs his pipe in Picone’s direction.

“It was just the radio.”

“The man was a fascist. The most insufferable egomaniac ever to draw breath.”

“It was just the radio.”

They have progressed to the scotch and Martha’s cheeks have taken on a distinct glow. The old timers can really put it away. Picone knows he should leave but is unsure if he can even stand. Walter steps effortlessly over to a framed photograph and hands it to him. The picture shows a stately brick building with a young Martha poised at the top step.

“The Academy of Music in Philadelphia,” he says. “On the evening this picture was taken Pinchas Zuckerman nearly lost an eye to a broken violin string. Martha and I had just moved here. And this” — he points to a slash of white tail fin at the picture’s edge — “is my Caddy. For a time I was the automotive trendsetter in residence.”

“How long ago was that?”

Walter lights a match and holds it to his pipe.

“Well, let’s see. We moved here in 1968, so that would make it twenty-eight years. Of course the neighborhood has changed considerably. First the Asians and now the movers and shakers. They’re thinking of turning the building into condos, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Can you imagine taking out a mortgage at our age?” Martha rolls her eyes. “We’ve decided to move if they force us to buy. Of course moving will probably kill Walter.”

“I think we should just sell off everything and sponge off the children for a few years.” Walter replaces the photograph.

“Listen to him, a few years. And then what Walter?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Retire to Alaska?”

“Alaska? The idea is to get away from the cold.”

“That’s when we’re dead, dear. While I still live and breathe I intend to distance myself from my fellow geriatrics.”

Picone marvels at their patter. Most of the old people he knows have outlived their sense of humor. He wants to hear more about Holland and the symphony and possibly a bit more about their daughter who is, judging from various photographs, a younger version of her mother. But just as he’s slipping off his shoes he hears a telephone ring in his apartment.

“I’d better be going.” He struggles to rise. Before he can straighten up the ringing stops. Half bent over he glances over, smiles, and settles back into the sofa. Walter chuckles and fusses with his pipe.

“You know, Lou, Walter still has that Cadillac.” Martha breaks the silence. “It’s been sitting in a garage for almost fifteen years.”

“A classic overindulgence. I’m afraid we became very attached, the Caddy and I.” Walter shakes his head. “I intended to have it completely restored, but the automatic transmission self-destructed and then, before I knew it, a decade had passed. Even now I envision Martha and me rolling across the desert to parts unknown.”

“That’s my husband for you.” Martha sighs. “I don’t drive and he’s one Scotch away from cerebral hemorrhage. Did you have a particular desert in mind, dear?”

“As a matter of fact I was thinking of Death Valley. The wild-flowers in springtime. It’s the kind of place old men dream about when they realize their limitations.”

“Take a green pill, Walter. It’ll make you feel better.”

It’s nearly eleven when Picone drags himself away. Martha sees him to the door and rises on her toes to peck his cheek.

“Thank you so much, Lou,” she whispers. “We get so little company these days. I haven’t seen Walter this animated in years.”

“I think I might know somebody who might want to buy that Cadillac, Mrs. Kelleher.”

“Oh goodness, I don’t think Walter would ever sell.”

“This guy is crazy for Cadillacs. He’d pay top dollar, depending on the condition. Tell you what, why don’t you give me the address where it’s stored and I’ll take a look at it.”

Martha glances over her shoulder and steps into the hallway. “It’s at 227 Walker Street,” she tells him. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be worth much after all these years.

“You never know. This guy’s loaded.”

The moaner arrives at the pothead’s an hour later. Through the peephole Picone sees her pacing and hears the impatient snap of chewing gum. The pothead answers the door in a burgundy kimono. A real piece of work, this guy. Picone returns to the Matterhorn, listening as they gush over each other. Their enthusiasm undermines his solitude and he finds himself losing interest, even as he fits the jagged peak in place. For lack of anything better to do he goes to the kitchen to fix a sandwich. As he bends to search for the mayo the tiny joint falls from his pocket and rolls beneath the refrigerator. He hesitates for a moment, then kneels to retrieve it.

From the window he can see the old marquee of the Strand Theater. He remembers riding in the car, listening to his father describe the old landmarks — the dancehall turned into a tire outlet, the dry cleaners where the cigar shop used to be. Old places gave way to new places in those days. Now there is nothing to replace the past. It stays to haunt you, crumbling in front of your eyes. The Strand has been boarded up for more years than it was open. The dry cleaners and tire outlet are long abandoned. Anchored to empty neighborhoods, they fade but refuse to fall. Picone has walked these streets at night, moving through the shadows like a ghost. When he was a kid he was always afraid, but now he just feels sorry for himself.

One time they broke into a building over on Fourth Street that turned out to be a lodge meeting hall. They found uniforms and funny hats and in a back room, wonder of wonders, a steamer trunk filled with gleaming sabers. For weeks they played pirates under the Baker Street bridge until Danny Burns’s mother called the cops. The papers dubbed them the Baker Street Buccaneers and even ran a picture of Danny with the sword jutting from his belt. The old lodge burned down while he was in prison. Danny Burns retired from the police department ten years ago.

He watches a show about hydrocephalics. The narrator explains that the brain continues to function even when compressed against the rim of the skull. He has the computer graphics to prove it. Picone hangs on his every word. He switches to a program about alternative energy sources and marvels at the logic. The CNN business report makes perfect sense.

Stan drops by in the morning to check on him. He sees the puzzles through the doorway, pushes past Picone, and walks the narrow path to the center of the room.

“Un-fucking-believable! If I didn’t see it with my own eyes I wouldn’t think it was possible.”

“Yeah well, I’m trying to get it out of my system.” Picone scratches his head. “There isn’t a hell of a lot to do here, Stan.”

“What’s this?” Stan points to a puzzle with his shoe. “I think I’ve seen this one before.”

“That’s Pompidou Center. It’s like an art museum.”

“Looks like somebody turned it inside out.”

“It’s in France.”

“The thing is, this makes me very nervous, Lids. Here you’re schmoozing with Dopey next door and now you’re doing the place in wall-to-wall puzzles. Think you got enough fingerprints here?”

“What do you think, I’m gonna leave them behind?”

“I don’t know what to think. Why not just spray-paint your name and address on the wall?”

“Hey Stan, don’t get your bowels in an uproar. Just worry about your end, okay? I open an empty safe and you owe me big time.”

Stanley moves over to the window, straddling the Roman Colosseum to look outside.

“This is like one of those stories you hear on the corner, Lids. You know, local bungler takes a fall. Don’t forget I have my reputation to consider.”

“So give me a grand and we forget the whole thing. It’s all the same to me.”

Stanley steps away from the window, edges his foot beneath the Colosseum’s upper rim, and sends the pieces living.

“It’s a matter of professionalism. Understand what I’m saying?” He sidesteps over to the Grand Canyon. “Fraternizing with a mark is unprofessional. This” — he kicks the Canyon halfway to the ceiling — “is not professional.”

Picone doesn’t flinch. Stanley’s capacity for violence is a matter of record. As the beefy ex-con begins demolition on the Acropolis. Picone settles in the corner to watch.

“As for forgetting about it, forget about it.” Stanley flings whole sections of the temple his way. “Friday night you go to work. When you’re finished you check into the airport Holiday Inn. I’ll meet you there Saturday morning. It’s a cakewalk, Lids, in and out. You do this right and we move on to bigger things.”

“Anything else, boss?”

“Yeah, scrub the place down. Every handle, every door, every fucking tiling. They lift a print outta here and I promise you you’ll never make it back to Rahway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Hey, it ain’t just me, homeboy. I got partners. The only thing these guys like more than money is whacking guys like you.”

“Partners? What do you think I’m going to find in there, Stan?”

“Whatever you find you grab it all. Hey...” Stanley crouches next to Picone, balancing on the balls of his feet. “Listen, Lids, we go back a long way. I know you’re a stand-up guy, but you’re a little flaky sometimes, know what I’m saying? I worry.”

Picone rolls his head into the corner.

“If you got partners how come I gotta lay out eight bills?”

Stanley rises and tends to the crease in his pants.

“Think of it as an investment, Lids. Come Saturday and you’ll have more money than you can count.”

Walker Street is a walled-in cinderblock building rimmed in razor wire. Inside, a half dozen uniformed mechanics huddle over assorted dismantled vehicles. Picone approaches a wiry Asian with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. The Asian directs him to a fat man with mutton chop sideburns.

“Kelleher?” the fat man looks him over. “You mean that piece of shit Caddy? You want it? I’ll give it to you.”

“I want to know how much it would cost to restore it.”

“Kelleher. Jesus, he must be in his eighties by now. What’s this, a second childhood thing?”

“He doesn’t know about it. I want it to be a surprise.”

“It’s a surprise all right. I woulda junked that boat years ago but the old guy sends a check every month for storage.”

“How much?”

“Sixty bucks. Okay, it’s a little steep but it ain’t like I hold a gun to his head.”

“To fix it. How much?”

“Jesus, I’d have to check it out.”

“Would ten grand do it?”

“Oh yeah, we could do a nice job for ten grand. Not mint, of course, but very nice. Say, who are you, his kid? Kid Kelleher? Hey, Lee...” he calls to the Asian. “You ever hear of Kid Kelleher?”

Lee mutters an obscenity without losing the ash on his cigarette.

“I’m just a friend,” Picone says. “Is the Caddy here?”

“Yeah sure, it’s in the back.”

Picone follows the fat man to a back room — “the morgue,” as he calls it. A handful of vintage gas guzzlers sit shrouded in dust. At the far end, the Caddy. No serious body damage, no rust.

“Say, uh...” Picone glances at the name above the fat man’s pocket. “Vince. Let me ask you something. For fifteen grand can we roll this off the assembly line, or what?”

“Fifteen grand and you got yourself a cherry Cadillac, Mr....?”

“Dorsey. Lou Dorsey. So Vince, when do you think we could get started on this?”

The fat man shakes his head. “Well, I’ll be honest with you. We’re booked for a good two months. With all the hotshots moving in, I got my hands full.”

Picone paces the length of the room, marking the silence with each step. He pauses at a gutted ’57 Chevy, shoves his hands in his pockets, and heaves a dramatic sigh. When the tension has reached the proper level he turns to the fat man and cups his hands to his chest a la Corleone.

“Like you say, Vince, the problem here is Mr. Kelleher is getting on in years. Did I mention that I’ll be paying cash?” He repockets his hands and retraces his steps until he is standing in front of the sweating fat man. “What would another grand get me, Vince?”

“Another grand would put you at the top of the list, Mr. Dorsey.”

“I won’t forget it.” He takes the fat man’s hand, squeezing just hard enough. “I’ll be around Saturday morning. What time you open here, Vince?”

“Usually eight-thirty, quarter to nine.”

“Nine it is. Vince?... Ciao.”

Friday night.

Maurice arrives carrying a suitcase in lieu of the attaché. Nostrils flaring with greed, he nods to the pothead and leads him through the handshakes before stepping inside. Picone can barely hear them at first. Moving along the wall with the stethoscope he tracks them through the living room to the bedroom. More locks, a dropped key, mumbled curses, and then they’re inside.

“Come on, let me look at it,” the pothead sputters.

The snap of suitcase latches is followed by a muffled scream, then two muffled screams. Stanley has stepped in it this time.

“Put it away, put it away,” Maurice squeals. “No, don’t touch it, don’t touch it.” His unseen histrionics send the pothead into belly laughs.

“We’re rich. We’re freaking rich,” they shriek in whispers.

Picone makes himself a sandwich while they blow off steam.

Midnight comes and goes. Sprawled on the carpet smoking one cigarette after another, Picone endures a litany of delusions and pipe dreams culminating in a Maurice island fiefdom crawling with nasty bitches. His prurient interests revived, the pothead calls a cab to take them to the Cabana Club. The whine of tumblers sets off a medley of keys, locks, and shrill giggles fading down the hallway and into the night. Picone waits for fifteen minutes, then heads to the closet for his tools.

On his knees he runs the box-cutter blade over the wallboard in a low arch. Deep, but not deep enough to be heard. He retraces the cut line again and again moving left to right. After twenty passes he changes the blade and reverses directions. Slowly, methodically. A thin layer of dust covers the carpet, the scattered puzzle pieces, and the tops of his shoes. By the second pack of blades the carved-out section begins to work loose. A dozen more strokes and the blade pierces the wall at the top. Straining to be quiet, he pulls out the hump of sheetrock in one piece. The inside studs are placed a foot apart. Plenty of room. Stuffing a blanket in the gap between walls, he uses the cross beam as a straight edge, cutting parallel lines in the inside wall, connecting the lines with a cut along the cross beam. He works in a catcher’s crouch, bracing himself with his free hand. He’s done this sort of thing before. Patience is the key.

When the cut line is paper thin, Picone rocks on his backside and kicks out a perfect rectangle. It lands in the pothead’s bedroom with a soft thud. The safe is centered on the far wall in a square patch where a picture should be. A toy with a ten-digit tumbler. He wedges a crowbar in the seam and pops it open.

Stanley calls at 2 A.M. Picone can hear the screech of brakes on a passing bus.

“What’s going on, Lids? I’m going nuts here.”

“I’m just getting started. Our boys left about an hour ago.”

“It’s a cakewalk, Lids,” Stanley insists. Picone fingers a wad of bills, picturing a frosted cake with Betty Boop legs.

“Go to bed, Stan.”

“By this time tomorrow we’ll be in Atlantic City. I can see us, Lids. I can see us so clearly it scares me. I don’t know what it is, man, but whenever I get this close something always screws up. Tell me nothing is gonna screw up, Lids. I need you to tell me.”

“It’s a cakewalk, Stan. Just like you said.”

“Jesus, I got heartburn like you wouldn’t believe. I can’t get comfortable, you know? It’s like I wanna crawl out of my skin. Sometimes I think it was better inside, Lids. No pressure, you know?”

“You need to relax, Stan. Take a bath. Fix yourself a stiff drink and soak awhile. It works for me.”

“Yeah right. If I try to do anything I’ll forget to worry and then we’re in trouble. I swear to God this stuff makes me nutso.”

“You could always come over and help.”

“I can’t let anyone see me there. I shouldn’t even be calling. You know how far I had to walk to find a phone booth that works?”

“Let me go to work Stan.”

Picone runs his finger along the map from the expressway to the Turnpike, then west to the interstate. The names of the towns run together like a morning traffic report. He remembers a class trip to Valley Forge when he was a kid and the time his parents stopped at Hershey Park on their way to Ohio. Dayton. That was the name of the town. His single Dayton memory is of his father sideswiping a station wagon, then berating the driver as his mother pleaded. From Pittsburgh he can catch a flight to Frisco. Find a nice place with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Picone closes his eyes and pictures the furniture in his future — a roll-top desk with secret compartments and tiny keys. A solid mahogany chest of drawers.

On the way out he tapes a note to the pothead’s door.

“How do I look, dear?”

“Positively rakish!” Martha reaches over to smooth a silver side-burn. Rakish indeed. In his tweed cap and Ray-Bans Walter is the picture of senior chic. He conceded the while ascot and cigarette holder at Martha’s insistence, hut then Walter has long deferred to Martha’s sense of style.

“You look like an older FDR,” she tells him.

“I feel like a new man, by God. A rambling rogue full of spit and vinegar.” He takes her hand and brings it to his lips. “I can only think it’s a miracle. The angel Lou Dorsey sent to us in the eleventh hour.”

“A bolt out of the blue.”

“And the timing, Martha! The exquisite confluence of fate. I must confess, at first my euphoria was tempered with regret for the lost years.”

“You sure had me fooled, leaping around like an old baboon.”

“Now I see it as a fitting conclusion to lives well lived. A finale of the grandest sort.”

“I just pray he’s not in some sort of trouble.”

“The boy’s a pistol, Martha.” Walter pounds the steering wheel for emphasis. “I didn’t think they made them like that anymore.”

They lose themselves in silence as the miles slip by. At the freeway interchange Walter bears to the left and heads the old Caddy into the sunset.