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the gathering of neighbors and turned around in the cul-de-sac at the north end of the block, Greg glanced over his shoulder to see who’d been talking about a lawsuit against the city. It was one of “Danny’s dads” talking to the businessman who’d built “Housezilla” at the end of the street, making Beecham Street look like an English lane leading up to the great manor house. Greg chuckled. By comparison, his small brick bungalow and the others on the block seemed like peasant housing. How did that guy get three lots across the end of the street for his estate?
         He casually joined the two men. “You an attorney?” he asked the tall man in the trim black suit, white shirt casually open at the neck. Greg reflected that he could’ve looked just as sharp if he hadn’t changed. “Thought you ran a limo company. I see your Town Cars from time to time.”
         The man gave him a bland smile. “That’s right. Lincoln Limo, but it’s just for pickin’ up the babes.” He grinned wryly as he extended his hand. “I’m an attorney most of the time. Lincoln Paddock.” He turned to introduce the other man. “And this is . . . sorry, but your name slips me.”
         “Tim Mercer. We live next door.” He jerked a thumb at Paddock.
         Greg shook hands with both men. “I’m Greg Singer. We’re at the other end of the block.” He turned to include Jared Jasper in the conversation, but by then Jared and his son had stepped away, greeting other people.
         The Chevy pulled up to the curb and stopped. A lanky man came around to help old Mattie Krakowski out of the passenger side. As soon as he stabilized her with his offered arm, she gazed up at the two-flat, windows ablaze with light in the fading twilight, as though recalling a lifetime of memories. Greg wanted to ask what Mercer had meant about a lawsuit, but just then a lovely soprano voice began singing, “Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? . . .”
         “Here.” Tim Mercer thrust a sheet of paper between Greg and Lincoln. “The words.”
         As the old lady advanced up the candlelit walk, she stopped every few steps and peered around at the chorus of neighbors as if she couldn’t believe her rheumy eyes. When the song finally ended, several people shouted, “Welcome home, Mrs. Krakowski!” as Harry and Estelle Bentley escorted their new renter up the steps to the newly remodeled first floor apartment.
         Once she’d gone inside, everyone stood in silence as if they didn’t want to break the spell. Across the small gathering, Greg sighted Nicole. At least she’d made it in time, and like several others in the group, she was wiping a tear from her eyes.
         “Now that was nice,” said Tim Mercer, breaking the silence. “Good on her.” He seemed genuinely moved.
         “Oh yeah.” Greg turned. “Hey, what were you were saying about the old lady having a good case against the city? What for?”
         “Well, I’m no attorney.” Tim glanced self-consciously at Paddock. “But it seemed to me the city might have incurred some liability when they failed to clear our street that day after the big snow. And when the city ambulance people couldn’t make it in here, they just gave up and drove away. Mrs. Krakowski could’ve died in that basement when she fell.”
         “They left her there?” Greg couldn’t recall the incident. Maybe he’d been out of town.
         “Yeah. And nobody could get ’em to come back until later when Farid over there plowed a lane down the sidewalk with his pickup.”
         “Wow. I see what you mean. What do you think, Lincoln?”
         The man shrugged. “Well, she might have a case, but it’s usually not that simple.” He stopped as if not wanting to offer any more of an opinion.
         Greg arched his eyebrows. “Why not? I knew this man who went to Cook County Hospital with blood clots in his leg.