Dave's hand tightened around Michael's, and his chest felt as if someone had dunked a knife in ice water and then placed the flat of the blade against his lungs. He almost stopped, his feet trying to plant themselves to the sidewalk, but something pushed him forward, and he hoped he looked normal, fluid. Sean's head swiveled in his direction, the eyes blithe and empty at first, then narrowing in recognition as they met Dave's.
Both men smiled at the same time, Dave giving it the full wattage and Sean's pretty wide, too, Dave surprised to see what might have been actual pleasure in Sean's face.
"Dave Boyle," Sean said, coming off the car with his hand extended, "what's it been?"
Dave shook the hand and got another small jolt of surprise when Sean clapped him on the shoulder.
"That time up the Tap," Dave said. "What, six years ago?"
"Yeah. About that. You're looking good, man."
"How you been, Sean?" And Dave could feel a warmth spread through him that his brain said he should run from.
But why? There were so few of them left from the old days anymore. And it wasn't just the old clichés? jail, drugs, or police forces? that had claimed them. The suburbs had taken just as many. Other states, too, the lure of fitting in with everyone else, becoming one big country of golf players and mall walkers and small-business owners with blond wives and big-screen TVs.
No, there weren't many of them left, and Dave felt a stirring of pride and happiness and odd sorrow as he gripped Sean's hand and remembered that day on the subway platform when Jimmy had jumped down on the tracks and Saturdays, in general, had felt like Anything Is Possible Days.
"I been good," Sean said, and it sounded like he meant it, though Dave could see something small crack in his smile. "And who's this?"
Sean bent down by Michael.
"This is my son," Dave said. "Michael."
"Hey, Michael. Pleased to meet you."
"Hi."
"I'm Sean, an old, old buddy of your dad."
Dave watched Sean's voice light something in Michael. Sean definitely had some kind of voice, like the guy who did the voice-overs for all the movie coming attractions, and Michael brightened at the sound of it, seeing a legend, perhaps, of his father and this tall, confident stranger as kids who'd played in these same streets and dreamed similar dreams to Michael's and those of his friends.
"Nice to meet you," Michael said.
"Pleasure, Michael." Sean shook Michael's hand and then rose up to face Dave. "Good-looking boy, Dave. How's Celeste?"
"Great, great." Dave tried to recall the name of the woman Sean had married and could remember only that he'd met her in college. Laura? Erin?
"Tell her I said hi, will you?"
"Sure. You still with the Staties?" Dave squinted as the sun broke from behind a cloud and bounced hard off the shiny black trunk of the government sedan.
"Yeah," Sean said. "Actually, this here is Sergeant Powers, Dave. My boss. State Police Homicide."
Dave shook Sergeant Powers's hand, that word hanging between them. Homicide.
"How you doing?"
"Good, Mr. Boyle. Yourself?"
"Okay."
"Dave," Sean said, "you got a minute, we'd love to ask you a couple quick questions."
"Uh, sure. What's up?"
"We maybe go inside, Mr. Boyle?" Sergeant Powers tilted his head in the direction of Dave's front door.
"Yeah, sure." Dave took Michael's hand again. "Follow me, guys."
Heading up the stairs past McAllister's place, Sean said, "I hear rents are rising even here."
"Even here," Dave said. "Trying to turn us into the Point, an antique shop on every fifth corner."
"The Point, yeah," Sean said with a dry chuckle. "'Member my father's house? Cut it into condos."
"No shit?" Dave said. "That was a beautiful house."
"'Course he sold it before the market got hot."
"And now it's condos?" Dave said, his voice loud in the narrow stairwell. He shook his head. "The yuppies who bought it probably get per unit what your old man sold the whole place for."
"'Bout the size of it," Sean said. "What're you gonna do, right?"
"I dunno, man, but I almost think there's gotta be a way to stop them. Send them back to wherever they grow them and their goddamn cell phones. Friend of mine said the other day, Sean? He said, 'What this neighborhood needs is a good fucking crime wave.'" Dave laughed. "I mean, that'd send property values back to where they belong. Rents, too. Right?"
Sergeant Powers said, "Girls keep getting murdered in Pen Park, Mr. Boyle, you might get your wish."
"Oh, it's not my wish or nothing," Dave said.
Sergeant Powers said, "Sure."
"You said the f-word, Dad," Michael said.
"Sorry, Mike. Won't happen again." He winked over his shoulder at Sean as they opened the door to the apartment.
"Your wife home, Mr. Boyle?" Sergeant Powers said as they entered.
"Huh? No. No, she's not. Hey, Mike, you go do your homework now. Okay? We gotta get over to Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Annabeth's soon."
"Come on. I? "
"Mike," Dave said, and looked down at his son. "Just go upstairs. Me and the guys gotta talk."
Michael got that look of abandonment little kids got when they were brushed off from adult conversations, and he walked toward the stairs, his shoulders drooping and his feet dragging like he had blocks of ice tied to his ankles. He sighed his mother's sigh and then began to climb the stairs.
"Must be universal," Sergeant Powers said as he took a seat on the living room couch.
"What's that?"
"That shoulder thing he's doing. My kid used to do the same thing at his age when we'd send him up to bed."
Dave said, "Yeah?" and sat in the love seat on the other side of the coffee table.
For a minute or so, Dave looked at Sean and Sergeant Powers, and Sean and Sergeant Powers looked back, everyone's eyebrows raised and expectant.
"You heard about Katie Marcus," Sean said.
"'Course," Dave said. "I was up the house this morning. Celeste is still there. I mean, Jesus Christ, Sean, you know? It's a fucking crime."
"You got that right," Sergeant Powers said.
"You get the guy?" Dave said. He rubbed his swollen right fist with his left palm, then noticed what he was doing. He leaned back and slid both hands in his pockets, trying to seem relaxed.