“Tullio’s still fallin’ behind,” Tony-From-Down-The-Block said, chewing on a half-smoked cigar that Judy had insisted he put out. Even unlit, it reeked. “It’s that friggin’ Fiesta he drives. I tol’ him to get rid of it. It’s a piece a shit.”
“He don’t listen to nobody,” Feet agreed, and Tony-From-Down-The-Block nodded.
“He breaks down, I ain’t helpin’ him.”
“Me neither. He can walk, for all I care. I tol’ him the same thing. He’s a cheap bastard.” “God forbid he should pick up a check.” Feet clucked. “Never happen.”
“Never happen.” Tony-From-Down-The-Block cleared his sinuses noisily. “You remember, he didn’t chip in for the judge’s gift at the Newark Futurity. You believe that? For the goddamn judge. God forbid he should open his friggin’ wallet.”
“Never happen.”
“Never happen. For the judge, even. So you tell me. How’s his loft gonna do the next race? You tell me. You think he’ll ever win a friggin’ race?”
Feet clucked again. “You think that judge is gonna go out of his way?”
“You think that judge is gonna forget the jamoke that didn’t chip in? Who didn’t even know what the present was? Never.”
“Never happen.”
“Never happen.”
Judy rolled her eyes in silence. She had lost track of who was talking and she didn’t even care. “Is Tullio still with us, gentlemen?”
Feet laughed. “He’s still alive, if that’s what you mean, Jude. In this crowd, you don’t take nothin’ for granted.”
Tony-From-Down-The-Block snorted. “He’s movin’ now. Musta taken his Viagra.” He burst into phlegmy laughter, as did Feet.
Mr. DiNunzio pointed right as they turned onto Ritner. “Stay on this for two blocks,” he said, and Judy nodded. On her own she would be lost. South Philly was a warren of rowhouses, beauty parlors, and bakeries. If you weren’t Italian, you had to drive around with them. “How long until we’re there, Mr. D?”
Mr. DiNunzio looked over. “At this rate, three days.”
Judy smiled, watching the Fiesta puttering in the rearview, and even so hardly delaying the rest of the caravan. Still she couldn’t fault them, even with their blocked nasal passages. They were members of the pigeon-racing club, each with his own loft, and they had volunteered to rescue Pigeon Tony’s birds in the middle of the night. They even had a chart that divided the birds equally among them, keeping them in their own lofts until Pigeon Tony could reclaim them. Judy felt confident the Coluzzis wouldn’t attack them in number, and the old men were all cooperating. The Bar Association should have this much collegiality.
“I tol’ him,” Feet was saying, “sell the friggin’ car, on the Internet. They got eBay, it’s free! You don’t even hafta put an ad in the paper. My kid told me—eBay, it’s called.”
“You’re shittin’ me. You can sell a car on it?”
“Goddamn right. And I tol’ him, it’s free for nothin’, Tullio, you cheap bastard.”
“But he don’t have a computer.”
“No way does he have a computer! They cost money, computers. They ain’t givin’ those babies away.”
“You think he’s gonna buy one?”
Never happen, Judy wanted to say, but didn’t. She checked the rearview mirror. The Fiesta now trailed three car lengths behind. She braked again, with a sigh. “If this keeps up, Feet, I want you to take the wheel from Tullio.”
“Gotcha, Jude. We’ll do like a Chinese fire drill.”
Judy winced. “You’re not allowed to say that anymore, Feet.”
“It’s against the law, nowadays?”
“In a way.” She watched the rearview. The Fiesta might as well have been in reverse. The pigeons could die of old age before the cavalry got there. “Chinese people don’t like it.”
Feet shrugged. “So I won’t tell ’em.”
“I don’t even know any Chinese people,” said Tony-From-Down-The-Block, and they all cruised forward under the moon.
It was almost four in the morning by the time the last of Pigeon Tony’s birds had been stuffed flapping into cages, and the cages were stowed in the ancient cars. It wasn’t an effortless fit. The old men crammed birdcages on Honda floors, on the consoles of Chryslers, and even on the dashboard of Tullio’s Fiesta. The pigeons panicked the whole time, beating their wings and giving Judy an education on just how loud a pigeon could squawk.
The noise and commotion woke up many of the neighbors, who came in pajamas to their windows and doors to watch the spectacle. None of them said anything, nor did any help, and one of them clapped as the old men shuffled out of a demolished row-house bearing pigeon cages, green sacks of pigeon feed, cardboard boxes of pigeon vitamins, and empty spray bottles for disinfecting lofts. The Old Man, which Judy had been told was Pigeon Tony’s special bird, hadn’t shown up and at this point wasn’t expected to. Five more birds had returned. Judy hoped Pigeon Tony would be happy.
She stood outside the front door at the curb and kept an uneasy watch on the dark and quiet street. She was armed with her cell phone, ready to call 911 on speed dial and have the cops arrive an hour later. She had to admit that the authorities weren’t exactly on the case. Thirty-odd old men had just emptied a house of its contents, and nobody had said boo.
Short of petty larceny on the part of some very old men, absolutely nothing went wrong. No Coluzzis, no guns, no baseball bats. Not even a rolling pin. Still Judy began to breathe easy only when the last car door slammed and the two Tonys and Mr. DiNunzio climbed into the truck and flashed her a thumbs-up. Judy flipped the StarTAC closed and hoisted herself into the driver’s seat after them. After all, they had only accomplished the first leg of their daring night raid. The second leg was of her devising, and they had agreed. In fact, at Frank’s instigation, they had insisted.
Judy started the F-250’s engine, which roared in hope but ended up idling in disappointment. She fed it only the slightest bit of gas, and it crept forward, the caravan crawling behind them like a sleepy caterpillar.
Judy’s heart leaped up at the sight. Her green VW Bug sat under a streetlight, parked outside the combine’s clubhouse, and it had remained untouched. She’d expected to find it the victim of a Louisville Slugger, but it looked as shiny and new as when she bought it. “Wow! Will you look at that!” she exclaimed. Every time she saw the car, she got happy. She couldn’t help it.
“It looks okay,” Mr. DiNunzio said, surprised.
“Okay? It looks beautiful!” Judy cut the truck engine and opened the door, but Mr. DiNunzio stopped her.
“Wait a minute,” he said, his hand on her arm. “You never know.”
“You never know what?”
“It could be a trap.”
“A trap? Mr. D, it’s only a Bug!” Judy said. She was thinking this secret-agent thing had gone too far.
“He’s right, Jude,” Feet said, in the backseat, and Tony-From-Down-The-Block nodded.
“You can’t trust the Coluzzis, Judy. Could be a bomb in it.”
Judy’s mouth dropped open. “Never happen,” she said, but nobody laughed.
“Lemme see, first,” Mr. DiNunzio said. He opened his door and eased down onto the black running board and out of the truck with difficulty. Ford F-250s were hardly the vehicle of choice for seniors.
“No, wait, Mr. D.”Judy grabbed her backpack and jumped out the driver’s side. The Two Tonys struggled out of their half-doors in the back, and they all stood staring at the green Bug from a distance, as if it were radioactive. The caravan had double-parked in a line down the street and the old men were getting out of their cars, the night filled with the slamming of Ford Fiesta doors. Judy thought the whole thing was silly. “It doesn’t have a bomb or anything.”