Free Feelers by Brian M Wiprud Page A

nodded.
    “Any tattoos?” That might mean someone from prison.
    “Not that I could see.”
    “Well, I don’t know what to tell you.”
    “How did he know to come here?”
    Danny shrugged.
    “Could he have been . . . someone from jail?”
    “Nah. Don’t know anybody like that from Sing Sing.”
    “At first I thought he was a cop, but . . .”
    “A cop? Why?”
    “Jeese, I dunno, he just seemed like it, you know. But a cop would have left a name. Look, Danny . . .”
    “You tell Jonathon about this?”
    Clara winced. “Yeah.”
    “Oh boy.”
    Someone entered the front screen door, and footsteps in the front hall made their way into the kitchen.
    “Hey, kids—where’s Mommy?” came a voice. A second later a tall, muscular bald man with a mustache was standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed.
    Danny had forgotten how big Clara’s husband was. “Hi, Jonathon.” He was surprised when Jonathon actually shook his hand, but slowly.
    “You can’t stay, Danny, you know that.”
    Glancing at Clara, Danny responded, “Look, I don’t know who that guy was that came here. I’m not in trouble or mixed up in anything. I only just got out, how could I be?”
    “I don’t know. What I do know is that I’ve got two youngsters in there and a pregnant wife in here. I’m responsible for them, you know? What kind of father and husband would I be if I let you stay, what with strange men with no names just dropping by asking questions? If trouble is following you, I can’t have it here. I can’t take the chance.”
    Danny thought about that a moment, then looked again at Clara. She was looking at the floor.
    “You’re right, Jonathon. I only found out about this guy when I got here. I’m sorry. I don’t have any idea what it’s about, but—”
    “I can think of five million things it might be about.”
    Jonathon and Danny locked eyes.
    “Hey, I—”
    “Doesn’t matter, Danny, what you say. Someone is still gonna think you know where it is.”
    Danny paced to the far end of the room, turned, and came back. “I just need ten minutes with Clara. Then if you could drive me back to the station, I’ll go back to the city.”
    “I’m sorry, Danny. You are family, and I’m a family man. But I have priorities, you understand?”
    Jonathon turned and went back into the kitchen. Danny could hear him pull out a chair and sit with his kids, asking them about their day, and them answering each question with one or two words.
    Danny sat down again across from Clara. “How long has Uncle Cuddy been dead?”
    “A month.”
    “When did they clean out the house?”
    “Last week.”
    Last week. Fifteen years, and Danny missed the five million by a week.
    “You know who cleaned it out?”
    She merely shrugged and shook her head.
    “Who got the people who cleaned it out? How’d it happen?”
    “We had the real estate people arrange it.”
    “What real estate people?”
    “The ones who are selling it. Something like High Class or . . .”
    Or Upscale. Well, whoever had the five million hadn’t had it long.
    Clara smiled for the first time, a little tentatively. “Danny, remember the time we stole five dollars from Uncle Cuddy? Remember?”
    Danny almost smiled himself. “I remember.”
    “And we took the five dollars down to the candy shop. We were going to buy . . .”
    “Candy dots. We couldn’t seem to eat enough of them.”
    Clara laughed softly. “Candy dots, on the long rolls of paper. And then those boys tried to take our five dollars. They wereolder. But you punched the one right in the nose and they all ran off, the one tripping and falling into that puddle that was always by the alley. We laughed ourselves sick. Remember?”
    “Thank you for your time.” Danny got up and went into the kitchen. “I won’t bother you anymore.”
    Behind him he heard: “Danny, I’m sorry, but . . .” and she began to sob.
    Jonathon looked up at Danny. “Done?”
    “Done.”
    Scooting out his chair,