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arm. When I got back to the brewery, I called her.
                  " I'm so happy to hear that, " she said. She sounded genuinely thrilled. " And guess what? My dad is in town along with my uncle. Didn’t you say you were a fan? "
                  "I'm not, but my cousin Tanya is."
                  " Oh, I'm sorry. Well anyway, he's here and, you know, if your cousin wants to meet him... "
                  "That's would be wonderful. You free tonight around 7?"
                  "Come on over. 2589 Walden Street."
                  "Will do."
                  I immediately called Tanya at Junior's Pizza, where she worked as a waitress. She would be working until later that night, she said, but hold on. I heard her put down the phone, and I heard her yelling at Sol Lipschitz, AKA "Paoulo Montefiore," otherwise known as "Junior," that she had an emergency and couldn’t work. I heard Paoulo Montefiore call her a meshuggeneh nishtgutnick and why did he even bother to hire her in the first place. She got back on and told me she'd be home at 7 sharp.
    #
                  Shawn Ward was exactly what you'd picture him to be, if you're anything like me, and not a fan of anything to do with NASCAR. What I mean is: he seemed to be a stereotype of a racecar driver right out of central casting. He was in his early fifties, yet the close crop of hair I noticed below the edge of his baseball cap – which had the logo of a popular brand of motor oil on it – had that dyed shade of brown that was so transparently phony looking that it bordered on the comical. His mustache was something out of a 70s movie involving lots of car chases and truck crashes – something about stolen diamonds and a bikini contest – and he seemed always to be looking for a camera or a fan with an outstretched hand clutching a photo awaiting an autograph.
                  Maisie's mother was working that night. My guess was that she knew Maisie's father was coming and made the choice to be out of the house for the evening. The house her mother kept was a modest little ranch house, one located in a cluster of the same in an area of Carl's Cove that had remained miraculously untouched by the influx of money and celebrity culture over the years. The little couch against the wall had a crocheted blanket draped over the top, and there was a similar, yet unfinished project in the works on the couch itself. On a small shelf along the wall there were photos of Maisie over the years, some posing with her mother, some solo. Absent were any pictures of Maisie's father or uncle. Neither seemed to mind, or else pretended not to notice how underrepresented they were in this girl's life.
                  Her father looked exactly like her uncle, for they were twins. Her father, on the other hand, was quiet and seemed to throw glances around the room not for any cameras or for an adoring public, but for some place to escape.
                  "Maisie here is our pride and joy," said Shawn Ward, throwing his arm around the girl. I could tell she felt awkward. She kind of shrank under his touch and her face twisted up self-consciously. "We're all proud of our little girl. We raised her to be a little warrior. Right, sweetheart?"
                  He gave the girl a squeeze and she forced a smile.
                  I have to say that I didn’t like Shawn Ward very much by this point.
                  Tanya, however, was in ecstasy. I've never seen someone so enamored with another human being. You would have thought the Pope or the president or Ben Affleck was standing there before her. She stammered and giggled and her voice went up three or four octaves. She was a mess and didn’t care. And Shawn Ward ate it up like a brown bear at a honey convention. He flirted right back at her. It was embarrassing and, to put it bluntly, a little