Free Getting Old Is to Die for by Rita Lakin Page B

pastrami, bacon, and turkey sandwich on rye with Thousand Island dressing, with fries and onion rings.
    "That's your idea of light?"
    " You said light. I didn't say I agreed. Besides, I get to eat the leftovers for three days."
    "What about Paxton?"
    "I remembered he was hot on your lady friend's case. The word was he kept trying to follow the Dennison girl around to get her story. In fact he was such a pest, her family got a restraining order. He might have a notion where she went." With that Tim takes out a scrap of paper with a phone number. "He's living with a niece on Long Island. Hopefully he still has all his marbles."
    "Behind," warns a hoarse Brooklyn accent, and both men know this is the magic word telling them to duck. Waiter behind them, with hands and arms full of plates.
    Tim's order has arrived, and he and Jack watch how expertly the waiter extricates his food from the five other orders adorning his arms.
    Jack shakes his head at the enormity of Tim's portion, then goes back to eating his salad. "You'll be sorry later."
    "I know. I'm already sorry." Tim chomps hard on the sandwich, the dressing spilling sloppily over the sides. He leans over fast so he won't ruin his suit. Jack laughs again.
    Suddenly there's a rush of people hurrying in, grabbing for seats. Through the window Jack can see that they're exiting a huge tour bus.
    Tim starts wrapping his sandwich, at the same time signaling the waiter for the check. "There goes the neighborhood. Let's blow this joint and eat in the park."
    So much for memory lane.

    18

    A MAN LOST FOREVER

    J ack hops off the Long Island Railroad line and follows the directions Milt Paxton gave him over the phone. The station is within walking distance of an older neighborhood in Syosset, tree-lined, probably once a nice middle-class neighborhood, now gone downhill. The houses look old and neglected.
    It was evident that Paxton wanted company. He refused to talk on the phone. So here Jack is, heading for a guy who might know something. Probably a wild-goose chase. But once again, he's going on instinct. For years, this reporter hadn't given up trying to reach Patty for a story. Even though she was incapable of speech? Jack wants to know why he persisted for so many years.
    When he reaches the address, he sees a man sitting in a wheelchair on the porch--Milt, eagerly waiting for him. On a bench next to him are opened scrapbooks. Jack bets that Milt spent the time until the train came in gathering his old articles on the case.
    Milt Paxton is in his eighties. His thin, small body doesn't seem to move much, but his gaunt face lights up when Jack climbs the rickety steps.
    "Guess how many years it's been since somebody came to see me? Guess. Never, that's the answer." That's Paxton's greeting to him. Before Jack can speak, Paxton yells, "Maria!"
    A harried, stringy-haired, scrawny woman about twenty years younger than Paxton hurries out with a tray holding lemonade and cookies. "I was coming out. Hold your horses, you mean old man."
    She introduces herself as Milt's niece. "Thanks to this old codger, I have no life. Stay a long time and give me some peace!" With that she flounces back into the house, slamming the screen door after her.
    Milt Paxton chuckles. "Don't mind her. She loves waiting on me hand and foot."
    "I can see that," Jack says wryly, sitting down on the rocker next to him.
    Paxton points to his scrapbooks. "It's all there, the Jack Gold killing. I was on it from the beginning." Jack glances at the articles. There are Milt's bylines, accompanied by photos taken on the scene. There's Gladdy, holding onto her husband, refusing to let go as the EMTs try to get her to stand up. It was one thing to read the files, another to see these vivid photos.
    He can't take his eyes off the younger Gladdy, in her early thirties, on that dreadful day. For a moment, in his mind, he's there with her, feeling her pain. He pulls himself back to now. "I was told you kept trying to talk to