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Across the street and a couple of doors north, twenty or more people milled around on the front lawn of the graystone two-flat. Homemade luminaries—tea candles inside paper bags weighted down with sand—lined the walk up to the door, giving the yard a festive atmosphere. As he joined the group, Greg recognized most of the neighbors, though he couldn’t name many. He nodded at the guy who drove the big pickup with “Farid’s Lawn Service” painted on the door. His wife was with him, head and shoulders shrouded in a pale headscarf. Muslims probably. Estelle Bentley, dressed in a loose African-print caftan, was trying to keep the kids from kicking over the luminaries as they chased one other across the yards in some game of tag.
         Greg took in the sight with a smug feeling of satisfaction. It really was a great neighborhood, pretty safe for kids to run and play since Beecham dead-ended. And it was like a mini-United Nations—black, white, mixed, Hispanic, Middle Eastern, even an Orthodox Jewish family on his end of the block. He looked around but didn’t see them—the father definitely stood out with his black hat and side curls. But the two gay guys from the north end of the block were there. He didn’t see their boy, Danny, around this evening, but he was about Becky’s age, and Greg had been dreading the awkward conversation that was bound to come up sooner or later when his kids asked why Danny had two daddies.
         Greg recognized the father and teenage son of the black family on his side of the street. They’d sometimes waved to each other on Sunday mornings as both families headed out dressed for church. At least he presumed they were going to church. So with his kids in tow, he wended his way through the knot of people and extended his hand. “Hey, neighbors! Name’s Greg Singer. We live on the other end of the block from you.” He thumbed the direction over his shoulder. “Next-to-the-last house. And these two munchkins are Becky and Nathan.” The kids nodded, but seemed antsy, so he nodded his permission for them to run off and play.
         The man gave him a firm handshake. “Jared Jasper. This is my wife, Michelle, and our son, Destin.” The man was a bit taller than Greg, solidly built, hair cut close, wore wire-rim glasses. Mrs. Jasper nodded toward the Bentley’s two-flat. “Did you know Mrs. Krakowski when she lived here, Mr. Singer?”
         “Hey, just call me Greg. No, didn’t really know the old lady. I’m gone a lot with my job. But according to my wife, the new people who bought her house invited us to come tonight. Friendly folks, aren’t they?”
         “Uh-huh. You travel a lot?” Jared asked. “What kind of work do you do?”
         “Event coordinator for Powersports Expos. You’ve probably heard—”
         “Powersports?” The man’s teenage son spoke up. “What’s that?”
         Greg smiled. What a job! It was as good a conversation starter as if he’d been a pro-basketball player—a dream that had died when he stopped growing at five-eight. “We do shows featuring sports vehicles all around the Midwest, though this time of year it’s mostly boat shows. Say, you two got any interest in fishing boats, jet skis, stuff like that? Maybe you’d like to come to our next event. Gonna be down at Burnham Harbor, June 3 through 6.” He winked at the son. “It’ll be our biggest show this season. I might be able to get you and your dad a ride on a cigarette boat. What would you think of—”
         Before either of them could answer, someone shouted, “Here they come!” and almost everyone turned to watch a pair of headlights cruising slowly up the street.
         But it was the comment of a man behind Greg that got his attention.
         “If you ask me, I think she could bring a great lawsuit against the city for what happened. You do pro bono , don’t you, Mr. Paddock?”
     

Chapter 5
     
     
    As the old Chevy passed