A woman answered Emmas phone; she sounded like Emma, the same low voice, the same inflections, but the speaker wasnt Emma. The woman, whoever she was, passed the phone to Emma who said, If youre a telemarketer, Im going to hunt you down, burn your house, and kill your dog. She sounded serious.
Its Joe, Emma. And wouldnt it be easier to get on one of those do-not-call lists?
Those lists are unconstitutional.
And house burning and dog killing arent?
Why are you calling at such an ungodly hour?
Emma, its only nine.
Oh. So what do you want?
Patrick Donnelly just came to my house and threatened me. The other day, when we listened to your friend, the cello player, you seemed to know something about him. Id like to know what you know.
He came to your house?
Yeah.
Emma hesitated then said, All right. Come on over.
Her voice sounded strange. She sounded worried. DeMarco had rarely known Emma to be worried about anything.
Emma answered her door wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a blue smock smeared with paint. DeMarco didnt know she painted; just one more thing about her hed discovered accidentally. She took DeMarco into a living room that could have made the cover of House Beautiful and poured them whiskeys. She slugged hers down and immediately poured herself another.
Before DeMarco could say anything a young woman entered the living room. He was immediately struck by her resemblance to Emma. She was tall like Emma and had Emmas nose and Emmas chin, but her hair was dark and her eyes were brown. The young woman looked over at DeMarco, her expression wary.
Julie, this is Joe DeMarco. A friend of mine.
No smart-ass cracks tonight, like DeMarco being a bagman. Emma was definitely not herself.
The young woman nodded at Joe then turned back toward Emma.
Im tired. Jet lag, I guess. Im going to hit the sack, Julie said.
Im tired, Mom. Thats what it sounded like to DeMarco. He was sure the young woman was Emmas daughter.
Thats a good idea, hon, Emma said. Well sort this out in the morning.
And Emma, DeMarco thought, sounded absolutely, unbelievably maternal. A maternal Emma seemed stranger to DeMarco than snakes cuddling.
After Julie left the room, DeMarco said, Is everything okay, Emma?
Emma shook her head, dismissing DeMarcos question.
Tell me what Donnelly said to you, she said.
DeMarco relayed the gist of his one-sided conversation with Donnelly.
I knew about your father, Emma said.
DeMarco nodded, not the least surprised. I know this is going to sound strange, he said, but he wasnt a bad guy.
Emma didnt say anything but her eyes widened momentarily in amazement.
Yeah, I know what youre thinking: he was a killer. How could he not have been a bad guy. But from my perspective, as his son, he was okay. He was a quiet man, not some Mafia big mouth always trying to prove how tough he was. And when my dad wasnt, uh, working, we had dinner together like other families and most of the conversation centered around me, his only child. What I was doing in school, how I was doing at sports, why my grades werent better. That sorta thing. He was good to my mom and he was good to me. He and I used to go see the Yankees play almost every Saturday they were in town, and Sundays he always made breakfast pancakes and sausage.
DeMarco was silent a moment, remembering his father, how he sat in the bleachers with him at Yankee Stadium, an old flat cap on his head, an unlit cigar in his mouth, not cheering much, mostly just watching DeMarco enjoy himself. And he remembered his mother when they got home from the games and how shed rail at his dad for feeding him so much junk, and his dad standing there, this big guy with arms that could bend rebar, his head hanging contritely while his cap hid the pleasure in his eyes. DeMarco knew one thing for sure: his mother had never feared his father.
I really didnt know what he did until I was about fifteen, DeMarco said, and even then I had a hard time believing it. I just couldnt imagine him taking some guy out to a marsh in Jersey and putting one into the back of his head.