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worse than jar lids. Then the wrench slips.
     Two nails break to the cuticle, but the faucet handle gives at last.
    On to the packing nut and back to the wrench, which feels as heavy as gym equipment. It’s a strain. So much for the biceps
     of Rosie the Riveter. My cuticles sting, and this is taking a long time. What if H. Forest Buxbaum comes home to find me here?
     The very thought is a big incentive to get this done. Two-handed, I give the wrench a shove, and the nut loosens. Remove the
     cracked old washer, insert a new one. Back to the wrench, tight and tighter. The drip has stopped. It’s done.
    Ta-dah!
    I did it. Me. Success on my maiden voyage with wrench. Break out the bubbly. Ride me aloft on a parade float. It’s a one-minute
     high.
    Then it’s over. Done with. I put the toolbox back and think: what if one life leads to small deeds like the faucet washer
     and endless cups of tea? As the poet said, measuring life in spoonfuls. What if the alternate route means fire, danger… and
     death? Yes, maybe the ultimate big D, though it’s risk with a purpose, not cheap thrills. It gives the term “to die for” real
     meaning. It makes Jo’s bentwood rocker a launchpad, not a rest stop.
    Fact: I’m damn lucky to be here.
    Psychic service a la Reggie is my ace card and ticket to ride. Henry Faiser doesn’t know I exist, but come hell or high water,
     I mean to find out what happened thirteen years ago on Eldridge Street. I know a little something of how it feels to be imprisoned.
     If Faiser is innocent, I’m here to prove it and help set him free.
    It’s almost four and overcast when I set out with Biscuit for Tsakis Brothers Grocery. On her own, the dog would sniff every
     hydrant and parking meter, but this isn’t a leisurely stroll. Devaney hasn’t called, and I need information. We walk a half
     mile on Tremont at a brisk pace on a chilly, overcast afternoon.
    The brass bell at the store’s front door tinkles. Two baritone voices call, “Beeskit!”
    “Mees Reggie!”
    “Ari, George.” The Tsakis Brothers’ store is an aromatic world of coffee and cheeses, parsley and strawberries and bread.
     Both brothers smile their warmest greeting, their black eyes twinkling beneath thick dark brows. Ari is sorting tomatoes,
     while George waves from behind the deli case, where he’s slicing cold cuts for a buzz-cut man in a blue jacket. In white aprons
     against dark trousers, the Tsakis brothers could be twins, except George is clean-shaven with a thick head of hair, while
     Ari’s scalp shines as if polished, his mustache somewhere between handlebar and walrus.
    Biscuit sits, her shoulders taut. She can’t wait for the trick she’s about to perform. Her white front paws are out, tail
     whapping like a black and white windshield wiper. Ari reaches into his apron pocket and tosses a dog snack as Biscuit goes
     airborne to catch it. She chomps and swallows, and then they do it all over again. Paying Ari at the register, the customer
     scratches the dog’s head as Biscuit goes to her favorite spot by the big bag of onions. She lies down. Biscuit is in heaven.
    To tell the truth, my own idea of heaven is increasingly Tsakis Brothers Grocery. As Jo’s niece, I am treated like family.
     The grocery store is my neighborhood hearth.
    “So, Mees Reggie, what you need?”
    “Bananas, Ari.” I reach into the open produce bin, but he stops me.
    “These too big. I get you some from the back.”
    The legendary “back” is where the best and choicest of everything are kept for special customers, although everybody who comes
     in seems to qualify as special. In moments, Ari returns with a ripe bunch of smaller fruit, which curls like fingers. “These
     taste best. Some peoples likes the big ones, these out here for them. You want some strawberries too? Here, you try.” He offers
     a ripe berry, enjoys my enjoyment.
    “Delicious.”
    “We say, win win.”
    “Win win.” We smile. Ari will put the bananas and