Free Grave on Grand Avenue by Naomi Hirahara Page A

yellow paint at that time. Lita had quickly covered over the scratch with touch-up paint. I was nine years old and had even helped her with it.
    Fernandes keeps trying to offer more evidence that he is connected to our family. “Your grandmama has a birthmark on her thigh. It’s a beaut—shaped like a pelican.”
    Ew . Like I would know that? I use this moment to check out my alleged grandfather more carefully. I hate to admit it, but I do sort of see a resemblance to my dad. They are about the same height, around five nine. Normal build. My dad’s neck seems to bend forward more as he gets older, and Fernandes has the same type of posture. Dad has never had a mustache, but I know that he could easily grow one.
    “Cute dog,” Fernandes says.
    Shippo growls in response. He doesn’t care for either Fernandes or Bacall. I don’t blame him, especially when the poodle starts her insane yapping.
    I hesitate for a moment, unsure what to call my so-called bio-grandfather. Not Grandpa, for sure. Not Mr. Fernandes. Not Puddy (what kind of name is that, anyway?). I settle on not addressing him at all. “So, you’re Latino,” I say.
    The man shook his head. “I’m Luzo. Portuguese blood.”
    “Portugal.” So I may be not only part Japanese and Scottish, but also part Portuguese.
    “Something wrong with Portugal?”
    “No, of course not.” My mind starts refashioning my elementary school family tree. Whereas there was once a branch that abruptly ended, now there’s one that may stretch to Portugal.
    “I heard that you’re a cop.”
    I narrow my eyes. How does he know that?
    “Rookie, right?”
    It’ll be good for Fernandes to know that I’m part of law enforcement. “Got out of the academy a little more than a year and a half ago.”
    “That’s why I’m here. I want to help.”
    “Help what?”
    “I want to stop the Old Lady Bandit. Before he kills anyone else.”
    I bend down and rub Shippo’s head to hide the shock on my face. Old Lady Bandit? What kind of crazy coincidence is this? And why did he confidently refer to her as a he ?
    “Why would you know anything about that?”
    “Let’s just say that I’ve made some mistakes in my life when I was around your age. I’ve paid my debt to society; I can tell you that.”
    My stomach feels queasy. Whenever people say things like this, it means that they’ve been in jail. Does this mean I’m actually related to a felon?
    “I live in San Bernardino now,” Fernandes continues. “Getting my land legs back. Been at sea too long.”
    Is he speaking metaphorically? San Bernardino is a couple of hours inland, nowhere close to the water. “What, were you a sailor?”
    “In a way. I was a crewman on container ships. Been to Latin America about forty-three times. China, at least twenty. Too old for all that now. Staying with a friend in San Bernardoo. That’s when I saw the TV reports. I know this guy’s MO. He’s got his fingerprints all over these robberies. When I heard about this latest, with this security guard getting shot, I figured I had to do something. Got on the bus and looked up your grandmother.”
    I’m confused. Lita was in Puerto Rico until today. “You’ve talked to her already?”
    He doesn’t answer and continues to chatter about this guy he knows.
    “How do you know him, again? And what’s his name?”
    “A guy I used to run around with. I know how he works. I know that he’s the one behind those bank jobs.”
    Fernandes can sense my skepticism. I notice that he’s managed to avoid my question about the guy’s name.
    “He has a certain style; let me say that. Wouldn’t it make sense that the Old Lady Bandit is successful because he’s done it before?”
    He has a good point. “If you’re so sure that it’s him, why don’t you talk to the detective in charge? I can give you his phone number.”
    “Ah, well, I don’t feel that comfortable talking to the police.”
    What does he think that he’s doing now?
    Fernandes