Free Applaud the Hollow Ghost by David J. Walker

they’s Mafia or somethin’.”
    â€œJust wait there, sir, and—”
    â€œShoot no. Like to scairt me t’death. I’m gittin’ my tail outta here.”
    But not too far out. I caught a cab headed west and then had the driver wait just down the street until the cops came along. By that time, one of the men from the Ford had gone to see about the Cavalier being towed and whether I was still in the library. He came back and the Ford was just nosing out from the curb when the squad car cut it off.
    That’s when I left the scene. Because it wouldn’t take the men in the Ford forty-five seconds to prove there’d been a mistake, and the cops would start looking around for the guy that called in the false alarm. They’d find out what phone the call was made from, and somebody might guess who made it, too.
    I just hoped they weren’t able to prove it with a voiceprint or something. Technology threatens to take all the fun out of life.
    *   *   *
    L AMMY POKED A SPOON at a bowl of orange Jell-O, he was struggling to hold still with his bandaged left hand. Increasingly gaudy shades of yellow and purple were developing around his eyes. He was up in a chair by his hospital bed, and may have been more alert than the night before, but with Lammy it was hard to tell.
    â€œThey’re discharging you tomorrow, and I’ll pick you up,” I said. “Don’t leave with anyone else, unless I call and say I’m sending someone. Don’t even talk to anyone on the phone unless you’re sure you recognize their voice.”
    â€œMy sister called,” he said, still not looking at me. “She read about me in the paper. I told her not to tell my ma. She won’t.”
    â€œShe say she’s coming to see you?”
    â€œUh-uh. She just said she’s mad I’m causing all this trouble.”
    â€œJesus. I thought my family was bad.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œI mean, you—” But why try to explain? Most of us get only one family. So what else do we know? “Anyway, did you hear what I said about picking you up?”
    â€œYeah. Sorry I’m so much trouble.”
    â€œI told you last night to stop saying you’re sorry.”
    â€œOkay, I’m sor— Oops.” He lowered his head, but not quite quickly enough.
    I stared at him. “Hey! Lammy!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou started to grin, didn’t you?” He shook his head, but I knew better. “Oh yes you did, you sonov—” I stopped because he’d have thought I was angry.
    But I wasn’t. The poor lonely guy had caught himself saying something funny, and he’d actually let his guard down far enough so that he smiled—or started to, anyway—right out in front of someone, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
    Maybe I was smiling, too, as I rode back to Evanston on the el. That could explain why nobody bothered me. Maybe I was smiling and the muggers and panhandlers all thought I was crazy.
    It had stopped snowing, and I walked home from the el station by what I call the “back way,” down some alleys and through some yards, going in by my rear door so someone watching the gated entrance to the Lady’s drive wouldn’t see me arrive home. Inside, on the floor at the bottom of my back steps, was a fat envelope with a note in the Lady’s handwriting saying someone left the envelope with her and she’d used her key to put it inside.
    In the envelope were the police reports I hadn’t read yet and had forgotten I left in the Cavalier, along with a note from Caesar Scallopino telling me he’d have to do some actual work on the car because someone might contact him to see why he’d towed it. God knows, there were plenty of dents and rust spots he could deal with. Climbing the stairs, I realized my rib cage was aching again, so I made some more of Dr. Sato’s tea and took some