Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [75]
Since I was standing in front of my friend’s house, knowing she was at work, I decided to tidy up her sidewalk too, going about it quite methodically so I could keep an eye on the scene, exchanging greetings with passersby. My neighbors were especially curious, looking puzzled regarding the sheer number of discarded washers and dryers lining up on the sidewalk, a half-dozen or more, all of which were wrapped excessively with duct tape.
The appliances were also covered with sticky contact paper designating four decades of decorative patterns and styles: dainty Williamsburg prints of the ’50s, psychedelic op art of the ’60s, metallic disco dazzle of the ’70s. Good Lord, I muttered to myself, laundry day at the Grendels must’ve been confusing.
Why in the world would somebody have so many broken washers and dryers? It didn’t seem possible any one family could go through so many of them, not even in a lifetime. And why get rid of them now? Why not just wall them up in the middle of the basement like the nitwits did with our still? Were they moving? Were they dead?
Later that day, I strolled over to the market to get some provisions and saw that the truck was gone. Grendel’s Mother was out front with a bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush, scouring her stoop.
I couldn’t believe my ears at first, but as I got closer I confirmed that was she was, indeed, listening to Louis Prima. I had never heard a pleasing sound emanating from that house before, and felt myself grinning at her when she looked up. She was squinting against the setting sun and the smoke of a cigarette that was jammed in her crinkly, chubby cheek.
Remarkably, she kind of grinned back, as if she had forgotten for a moment to appear freakish, and I felt triumphant for having overcome my revulsion. Those bookies didn’t call me Smiley for nothing.
A week later my husband heard from a neighbor that Grendel had left his job sometime back in winter, and soon after, skipped town. One theory had him hopelessly beholden to a loanshark for gambling debts. Another had him caught red-handed trying to sell snapshots of kids he had stolen from customers.
I had my own theory, of course, but I didn’t share it with anyone—just minding my own Bella Vista business—because what do I know anyway?
I didn’t see nuthin.
PART IV
THOSE WHO FORGET THE PAST …
LONERGAN’S GIRL
BY DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI
Frankford
January 6, 1924
Somewhere out there, in the dark, was a noise. Lonergan twitched and tried to roll over but something blocked his way. He rolled the other way then stopped, sensing a huge void. Don’t fall in, he warned himself. He jerked back—
And woke up on the Frankford El.
The train thundered down a set of rails one story above the street, the whole works supported by a green skeleton of steel. Lonergan was in a middle car, sitting on the end of a bench near the center door. There were about a dozen passengers with him, almost all of them reeking of beer and cigarettes and gin. Everyone spaced themselves apart on the bench so they wouldn’t have to stare at a stranger across the way. Or watch a stranger vomit.
Lonergan briefly wondered where the El was now, how long he’d been asleep.
Outside the tops of dark buildings sped by, the sun having long vanished behind them. Best Lonergan could guess, it was around eleven p.m. The El slowed and began to screech. He recognized the sound. This was where the green skeleton curved from Front Street to Kensington Avenue. The Dauphin-York station. He was halfway there.
When the El first opened a little over a year ago, it was the eighth wonder of the Quaker City. Imagine—riding a new, arch-roofed Brill car from City Hall to the outskirts of Frankford in less than twenty-five minutes—a trip that ordinarily took close to an hour by other means! Thousands lined up to try it out, squeezing onto the benches and clutching the leather