“What are you doing with my mother?” he demanded. “You woke me up!”
“I’m so sorry, really sorry. Really sorry.” Mary was on an apology roll. Hey, maybe she did have a forte. “I just wanted to see the house and ask a few questions about a former owner, named -”
“Oh, you’re the one!” The young man threw up his hands. “They were asking have you been here! You know that jerk with the zits?”
Mary felt a chill. Jerk with the zits. The Escalade driver. “No, not at all. My name is -”
“I don’t care, I need my sleep, I work all night. Get out of here!” The young man faced his mother and began yelling again, but Mary couldn’t shake that chill. What was going on? And what about the clothesline? The laundry still dripped from its merry trip.
“I’m sorry, I’ll leave right now,” Mary said again. “I just need to know if you made this clothesline.”
“No!”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Seventeen years, eighteen, none of your business. Listen, I worked all night. I have to go back to bed. Leave now. Go!”
“Was the clothesline here when you got here?”
“Leave, I said! You want me to call the cops?” the man shouted, then turned on his mother.
“Wait, stop!” Mary interrupted, raising a palm. She couldn’t stand him treating his mother that way. Her mother would have beat him senseless with a wooden spoon. “Calm down. Please. I’m sorry, and I’m leaving.” She turned toward the door, then had a second thought. She pivoted on her pumps, bowed to the older woman, and handed her the box of pastry. “Please take this, with my thanks. You’re very kind.”
The woman accepted the box and bowed back, with a shaky smile.
“What’s in the box?” the young man demanded.
“Sfogliatelle,” Mary answered, and because he hadn’t translated his language, she didn’t translate hers. “If that guy with the zits comes back, tell your mother not to let him in.”
“Why?”
“He’s dangerous,” Mary said, without knowing why.
Ten
Philadelphia ’s City Hall was under renovations that hadn’t yet reached Room 154, the Registrar of Deeds. Dingy tan linoleum with blue streaks covered the floor, lights in the vaulted ceiling hung by a twisted wire, and rosy brown marble ran partway up walls that needed fresh blue paint. Mary sat with the rest of the citizenry in a bank of padded chairs, waiting to be called to the counter, where boxy computer monitors stood in various states of swivelhood. Deed clerks helped people at the counter, and chatter filled the room, interrupted by the ringing of phones, the squeak of the heavy door, and an office radio tuned to Power 99. Eminem and 50 Cent.
Mary fingered the thin pink slip bearing number 82, then glanced up at the deli-style NOW SERVING sign. Its red numbers blinked 81. She should have gone straight to work, but she couldn’t help but take a quick detour after what she’d seen at Nutt Street. She wanted to know if that clothesline was Amadeo’s.
“Eighty-two! Number eighty-two, please!” a deed clerk called out, and Mary went to the counter. The clerk was a well-built black man, with bright brown eyes and a ready smile. “How can I help you?”
“I need to trace the chain of title to a house.”
“No problem, let’s get the plot number,” the clerk said, turning the monitor toward him with a strong hand. Mary gave him the address, and he called it up on the bright screen and wrote a number on a pad. “How far back you want to go? Last year, year before?”
“I need to know from around 1900 to the present.”
The clerk arched an eyebrow. “Most people, they want a copy of the current deed.”
They’re the sane ones. “This is a research thing.”
“Leave your driver’s license,” the clerk said, and soon after Mary produced it, he returned with a jacket of microfilm no bigger than an index card, containing two rows of tiny black and white windows, preserved in plastic and bound at both ends. He pointed to the far corner of the room. “Viewers are over there. Turn off the light when you’re finished, please.”
“Thanks,” Mary said and hurried past the counter to the microfilm viewers. There were two, large blackish boxes, each bearing a proudly oversize label that read EYECOM 3000, which had probably sounded futuristic thirty years ago. She dropped her stuff on an empty chair next to her, switched on the light, and slid the microfilm into the grimiest viewer tray in existence. It took her three tries, wiggling the sticky handle back and forth, until she got something besides blinding light on the screen. Then she turned a gummy little dial to focus and zoomed in on the first deed in the top row.
THIS INDENTURE, read modern, matter-of-fact letters that Mary translated as Deed, made this 19th day of December, 1986. She skimmed to the name of grantor, LEE SAM to the grantee, MI-JA YUN. So it was the most recent deed, and Mi-Ja Yun had to be the older Korean woman’s name. Mary read the property description, just to make sure, and it was the right house. The sale price came next: sixty thousand and two hundred and thirty dollars and no cents.
Mary moved the tray to the right to move the screen image left, hoping it would be the second most recent deed. It was, and she sharpened the focus. This Indenture, began the first line again, and the date of the deed was November 2, 1962. She skimmed along to double-check the grantor, LI-PAK, to the grantee, LEE SAM, and the sale price was thirty-two thousand dollars. Two owners down.
Mary moved the tray to view the next deed, and its letters came up, slightly more old-fashioned, in Gothic font. This Indenture, it began, and it was made April 18, 1952. She read across to the grantor, JOSEPH and ANGELA LOPO, and to the grantee, LI-PAK. The sale price was eighteen thousand dollars. Mary considered it; only three different owners, so far so good. She was getting closer to the time Amadeo owned it, going back. If there weren’t many more owners, it made it more likely that the laundry line was his. She hadn’t thought it would be this easy. Fun with double-checking!
The next deed popped onto the screen, positively curlicue in its THIS INDENTURE opening, and the date of the transfer was November 28, 1946. Close, but no cigars. She read quickly to the grantor, JAMES and MARIA GIANCARLO, to the grantee, JOSEPH and ANGELA LOPO, the asking price was twelve thousand dollars. Fourth owner. Amadeo’s had to be next. With only four owners, that clothesline could have easily been his, still intact. And the next deed would tell her what had happened to his house after he died. A ghostly white square appeared on the screen, and Mary turned the knob to focus the image.
MORTGAGE BANK OF PHILADELPHIA read old-fashioned letters, and underneath it, JAMES and MARIA GIANCARLO. So the house had been bought at foreclosure, and the date on the papers was August 18, 1942. Mary paused. A month after Amadeo had died, his house had been sold at a sheriff’s sale. She skimmed to the price; five thousand, six hundred and twenty dollars. She couldn’t help but feel a weight in her chest and moved the tray one document over.
THIS INDENTURE read self-important letters, and the date of the deed was June 3, 1940. Mary skimmed ahead to see the grantor, and her heart stopped. JOSEPH GIORNO. She reread it, just to be sure. Joe Giorno, Amadeo’s lawyer? Founder of Giorno amp; Locaro, later Giorno amp; Cavuto, had sold Amadeo his house? She checked the grantee, and there it was: AMADEO and THERESA BRANDOLINI. The price of the house was nine hundred and eighty-two dollars.