Read Park Lane South, Queens for Free Online

medal from Nam that congratulated him every time rain was expected.
    Johnny opened the door and his heart sank. The bar was filled with women, church social women, waiting to be seated for their Rosary Society lunch. Hizzy came right over and extended his plump hand. “How ya been, Johnny?”
    Johnny gave him one of his rare, disarming smiles. “Yourself?”
    â€œHey, I’m fine,” Hizzy pumped his hand, then waved in a broad, all-encompassing sweep. “Sorry about all this. Every month, like a clock. You can’t get ’em seated and then you can’t get ’em to leave.” He squinted at Johnny. “Bad doings up in the park, huh?”
    Johnny looked at his feet and said nothing. Hizzy knew better than that. “I gotta go, Hizzy. Good to see ya an all but I gotta get something to eat real quick and then get some sleep.”
    â€œWhy doncha come back in the kitchen and I’ll have Irwin fix you up a couple a sandwiches to go … how bout it?”
    â€œThat’s okay, Hizzy. Next time. I’ll get something at the pizza place. Short and sweet.” He knew Hizzy was dying to get some inside dope on the murder. So it had spread this far that quick, eh? Terrific. Nice can a worms this was gonna be. He left as fast as he’d come in and walked across the hot white boulevard. Johnny slapped himself in the head. He must be punchy. He’d told Furgueson he’d try and check out that crackpot license number story. Furgueson had said it was probably a waste of time but Johnny had said he’d look into it anyway. It could wait until he’d had some sleep. It was gonna have to.
    The pizza place was pretty empty; at least it was cool and shaded under the canopy on the street. He ordered three slices and a large Coke and sat down at one of the little tables outside. Johnny rubbed his eyes with both hands and looked down the street. He wished the weather would make up its mind. One minute dark clouds threatened and the next you thought you should be at the beach. He was tired. Real tired. He’d just been going off duty when this whole mess had started, and this was the first moment he’d had to sit down and think.
    A group of young paisan, the criminal sort with nothing much to do with their daylight hours, cavorted like Gay Parisians at the next two tables. Coke spoons dangled from 18 karat gold chains and silk shirts were opened the obligatory four buttons.
    Each passing female was graded with uproarious detail. Plans were made for Saturday night’s rent-a-limo. A blond flight attendant’s phone number changed hands.
    They didn’t know who Johnny was (what cop drove a 1972 Triumph Stag?) and so they spoke openly, sometimes in Sicilian, among themselves. He understood most of what they said and on another day would have been remarking every word. As it was, he had other things on his mind, some sort of psychopathic, child-molesting monster whose evil he could still see in his mind’s eye and probably always would, and he wasn’t paying them much mind.
    The boy came out with his pizza and Johnny inhaled two of them, swallowed his entire Coke, ordered another, then sat back and enjoyed the third slice. God, he loved good pizza. In all his thirty-three years he must have consumed seven thousand pizzas. Nobody cooked for him, that was for sure. Nobody ever had.
    Johnny Benedetto had no family to speak of, unless you counted his old friend Red Torneo. He’d had a wife for about four months. She was lucky she was still alive. He’d found her in bed with her hairdresser. Jesus. He’d put all his clothes in one lousy suitcase while the two of them cowered in the bed like the little pieces of shit that they were, and he’d walked out and he’d never gone back. The next time he’s seen her, and the last, had been at the divorce hearing six months ago. That was it.
    Johnny played a hard game of handball, racquets, anything