I handed Maureen a business card. “Maybe you could have Allen give me a call when he gets in.”
“Sure.”
“By the way, what kind of car does Allen drive?”
“A tan Taurus. And then there's the Lotus.”
“Allen has a Lotus?”
“It's his toy.”
Expensive toy.
It was necessary to pass by the strip mall on my way home, so I did a short detour into the lot and checked out the bank. The lobby was closed, but the drive-?through window was open. That didn't do me any good. Allen wasn't going to be doing drive-?through duty. I rode around the lot looking for a tan Taurus, but had no luck.
“Allen,” I said, “where are you?”
And then, since I was in the neighborhood, I thought it wouldn't hurt to stop by and say hello to Irene Tully. And, what the hell, I might as well show her the picture of Allen Shempsky. You never know what could jog a person's memory.
“For goodness' sake,” I
rene said when she opened the door. “Are you still looking for Fred?” She gave an apprehensive glance to the Buick. “Is your grandmother with you?”
“Grandma's at home. I was hoping you wouldn't mind looking at another picture.”
“Is this that dead man again?”
“No. This guy's alive.” I gave her the photo of the Shempsky family.
“Isn't this nice,” Irene said. “What a lovely family.”
“Do you recognize any of these people?”
“Not offhand. I might have seen the man somewhere, but I can't place him.”
“Could he have been the man Uncle Fred talked to in the parking lot?”
“I guess it's possible. If it wasn't this man, it was someone very much like him. He was just an ordinary man. I suppose that's why I can't remember him so good. There wasn't anything special to remember. Of course, he wasn't wearing a Mickey Mouse hat and Bermuda shorts.”
I retrieved the photo. “Thanks. You've been very helpful.”
“Anytime,” she said. “You always have such interesting pictures.”
I bypassed the street that led to my apartment building and continued down Hamilton to the Burg. I'd been thinking about the bombing, and I had a plan. Since I wasn't going anywhere tonight, I'd lock the Buick up in my parents' garage and bum a ride home from my dad. Not only would it keep the car safe, but it had the added advantage of getting me dinner.
I didn't have to worry about the garage being in use, because my father never put his car in the garage. The garage was used to store jugs of motor oil and old tires. My father had a workbench in there along one wall. He had a vise attached to the workbench, and little jars filled with nails and things lined the back of the workbench. I never saw him work at the workbench, but when he got really fed up with my grandmother, my father would hide in the garage and smoke a cigar.
“Uh-?oh,” Grandma said when she saw me at the door. “This don't look good. Where's the black car?”
“It got stolen.”
“Already? You didn't even have it a whole day.”
I went into the kitchen and got the garage keys. “I'm going to put the Buick in the garage overnight,” I said to my mother. “Is that okay?”
My mother put her hand to her heart. “My God, you're going to get our garage blown up.”
“Nobody's going to blow up the garage.” Not unless they were sure I was in it.