Free Goldilocks by Andrew Coburn Page B

a voice she did not immediately recognize as her own. A robin flew to the neighbor’s tree and dissolved in the leaves. “A heart attack took him away.”
    His voice also sounded different. “I know what it’s like to lose somebody,” he said and, in taking leave, patted her shoulder.
    • • •
    Barney Cole finished his business in district court and crossed the street to Dolce’s Cafeteria, a deep hole-in-the-wall where denizens of the court and hangers-on gathered throughout the morning in numbers that diminished drastically by midafternoon. Now only a few tables were occupied. Cole carried his coffee away from the high counter, approached a table, and said, “Mind if I join you?”
    “I’d be mad if you didn’t.”
    The voice, hoarsened by the years, belonged to Arnold Ackerman, a retired bookmaker who had been a close friend of Cole’s father and a bearer at the funeral. He was semibald and had moist eyes in a dry and strained face that looked pulled apart at the bottom, the mouth large and rubbery. His small hands encircled a cup of tea.
    Cole, settling in, said, “How you doing?”
    “Ten years ago I was doing better. Today I got pains don’t belong to me, someone must’ve wished me bad, put pins in a doll or something. Voodoo. You believe in that stuff, Barney?”
    “I don’t discount it.”
    “Also I don’t sleep so hot. Happens, you get older. Dead of night you think you hear the phone ring, but it’s just an echo in your skull. Could’ve been somebody calling you two days ago.” He sipped his tea. “Few nights ago I dreamed your dad phoned me from heaven, but I wouldn’t accept the call. It was collect. I regret that, Barney. I would dearly have liked to talk to him again.”
    “Think he’s doing OK up there, Arnold?”
    “Sure he is, and so will I, they let me in. To make sure, I’m touching all bases. I mail my envelope in to the temple, play bingo at St. Pat’s, and tune in to Jimmy Swaggart. Ever watch that guy perform? His timing’s perfect, and he sweats on cue. Say what you want about him, but those glands are God-given.”
    Cole smiled warmly. His father’s old buddy, so many tales told about him. Could talk a dog off a meat wagon, a nun out of her habit. Never paid a dime for protection all his years booking. When cops tried to shake him down, he borrowed lunch money from them. Never lost an argument that counted. When it seemed he might, he mumbled, which made him incomprehensible and indisputable. Cole did not believe all the stories, only the implausible ones. He said, “I heard from Louise Leone.”
    “Did you?” The old face brightened. “Sweet girl. Smart. In high finance now. Bankrolls the big boys, that’s what I hear.”
    “Yes, that’s what I hear too.”
    “And she married blue blood. A guy, I bet, eats branny cereal for his bowels.”
    “His name’s Baker,” Cole said.
    “Makes her an American now. She never did like being a wop. Long time ago we thought you two would marry. Surprised your dad you didn’t.”
    Cole shrugged. He did not have an answer worth giving.
    Arnold sipped his tea, which did not look hot. “Her father’s sick. Something to do with his stomach. She mention it?”
    “No,” Cole said.
    “Maybe she doesn’t know.” The glazed crumbs of a honeydip doughnut lay like flakes of ice on a plate Arnold had pushed aside. He gathered them up and ate them, his mouth moving loosely. “Lot of people are sick. I see your pal Daisy Shea. He sure as hell doesn’t look tip-top.”
    “He’s hanging in.”
    “So’s Manny the tailor. Early last week he had a heart attack. I saw the ambulance guys wheel him out of his shop. They plunked his teeth on his chest, everybody to see. I visited him yesterday, Lawrence General. He looks pretty good now, especially with his choppers back in. Guess who’s in the same room with him. Buddy Pothier, owns the furniture store. Somebody beat up on him, left him with a detached retina and a few other