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"I hear the bus," Paul said.
His father hooked his canvas book bag, which had a lunch kit strapped onto it, on the back of the chair and wheeled him down the ramp to the waiting bus. The driver lowered a special platform from the back of the bus, and he and Tony fixed the wheels of Paul's chair to it. Before the driver raised the platform, Tony leaned down and hugged his son, pressed his head against his chest, and kissed his hair.
He came back in and sat down at the table. He wore white tennis slacks and a thick white sweater with blue piping on it.
"You have a fine little podna there," I said.
"You'd better believe it. How'd you sleep last night?"
"Good."
"You like my home?"
"It's beautiful."
"I wish my mom had lived to see it. We lived in Algiers and the Irish Channel. We had colored people living next door and across the street from us. You know what my mom used to do for a living?"
I shook my head no.
"She washed the hair of corpses. She'd come home, and I could smell it on her. Not just the chemicals. That same smell when you pop a body bag. Not as strong, but that same smell. Man, I used to hate it. I think that's why she always talked about lemon and lime trees back in Sicily. She said on her father's farm there was this old Norman tower made out of rocks, and lemon and lime trees grew all around it. When it was real hot she and her sisters would play inside the rocks where it was cool, and they could smell the lemons and limes on the wind."
Two men walked into the kitchen, their faces full of sleep, and began clattering around in the cabinets.
"Where's the cereal bowls at?" one of them said. He was dark and thin; he wore slippers and his print shirt was unbuttoned and hung half out of his slacks, but he hadn't forgotten to put on his shoulder holster.
"Right-hand side," Tony said. "Look, you guys, there's eggs and bacon in the warmer out in the dining room. There's extra coffee there, too."
They shuffled around in the kitchen and didn't reply. Then they went out into the dining room. These were only two of eight hired men I had seen in the house since the night before. They had slept on couches, in the attic, the television den, and guest cottage, and had taken turns walking around on the grounds and driveway during the night.
"They're good boys, just not too sophisticated," Tony said. "Do they make you uncomfortable?"
"No."
"A couple of them made you."
I looked at him blankly.
"They can spot a cop," he said. "I told them you're all right, though. You're all right, aren't you, Dave?"
His eyes took on that strange, self-amused light again.
"You have to be the judge of that, Tony."
"I think you're a solid guy. You know what a solid con is?"
"Yes."
"You're that kind of guy. You've got character."
"Maybe you don't know everything about me."
"Maybe I know more than you think," he said, and winked.
I didn't know his game, or even if he was playing one, but I didn't like meeting his eyes. I took a bite of my soft-boiled eggs and looked out at the mist in the citrus trees.
"Where's the contract coming from?" I said,
"There's one guy in Houston that wants me out bad. Two or three in Miami. Maybe they got permission from Chicago, maybe they're acting on their own, I don't know. You heard stories about me, Dave, about some stuff I do, waving the flag around, bullshit like that?"
