Mohawk

boy.”
    “Of course. A young Mather Grouse. I have a granddaughter. Do you like girls?”
    “Not much,” Randall said, certain he would not like the girl in question.
    “No,” the man agreed. “But the day will come. And when it does, I hope you’ll pay us a visit. It would be fine to know that my little one had young Mather for a friend.”
    “His name is Randall,” Mather Grouse said.
    “I will remember,” Rory Gaffney said. “And you, Mather. I know you will remember. You will let me know—”
    “Yes,” said Mather Grouse, not an accomplished liar. His grandfather’s real intention was so clear to Randall that he couldn’t understand why the other man, now buttoning his coat to leave, was apparently satisfied with their arrangement. When Randall pushed the door shut behind him, Mather Grouse started to get up, then thought better of it. The inhaler was on the end table, and he used it, his grandson looking on. “You all right, Gramp?”
    Mather Grouse nodded, closing his eyes.
    “Want me to get Mom?”
    “No!” his grandfather said emphatically. “Just look out the window and tell me where he is.”
    The boy did as he was told. “Gone.”
    “Look down both sides of the street.”
    “He’s gone.”
    Mather Grouse shook his head. “Go to the back bedroom. Leave the light off.”
    “Okay. Sure,” Randall agreed, excited by the adventure of it. When he returned a few minutes later, his eyes were wide. His grandfather nodded knowingly when the boy told him that the man had not gone away. Instead, he was on his hands and knees along the side of the house, trying to peer through the small, smoky window into the pitch darkness of Mather Grouse’s cellar.

21
    The policeman wasn’t visible when Harry locked the front door of the grill and backed into the street, the pie tin full of turkey and dressing warm and snug under his coat. His car was parked half a block up the street. He took his usual route home, checking the rearview until he was sure no one was following, then circled back and parked on Hospital Hill on the opposite side of the street from the old Nathan Littler. Except for the emergency unit, the whole building was black and the broken glass crunched beneath his feet as he puffed up the incline and around the rear of the building, all the while trying to think of some plausible explanation if he were caught sneaking into an abandoned wing of a soon-to-be-demolished building at ten o’clock on Thanksgiving night. By the time he had climbed to the third floor, he was completely winded.
    Wild Bill Gaffney, comfortable in his coat, was seated against one of the inner walls beneath a sign warning pregnant women about the potential dangers of x-rays. In profile Harry looked like this might apply to him, at least until he gave birth to the pie tin and handed it to Wild Bill, who’d been eyeing his friend’s middle since the man came to a wheezing halt at the top of the stairs. Harry caught his breath while Wild Bill wolfedthe food noisily. “Slow down,” Harry said. “You’ll be sick.”
    Wild Bill tried to slow down, but found he couldn’t. He had been waiting for the food too long and was too happy to see it. In fact, he was obviously happy in general.
    Harry studied him critically, wishing there was something he could do to make him less happy. Wild Bill had nothing to be pleased about, at least nothing Harry could see.
    Wild Bill noticed he was being studied, and grinned gravy. “Ive,” he said.
    “Yeah, he’s alive. But that’s about all.”
    Wild Bill shook his head emphatically. “Ahn,” he said before refocusing his attention on the pie tin.
    “And what?”
    Wild Bill nodded enthusiastically.
    Harry shook his head. “You’re looney, you know that? All week you’ve been saying ‘and’, but you never finish the goddamn sentence. And
what?
”
    Wild Bill stared stupidly until Harry, exasperated, gave up. “We got to figure a better place. They’ll level this pretty soon. And besides, it’s getting too fucking cold.”
    Wild Bill thumbed gravy around the tin and did not appear overly concerned. Harry watched him, understanding, perhaps for the first time, why some people liked to abuse him. Just then, to slap him would’ve been nice. “Ahn,” Bill said.
    Harry massaged his temples, trying hard not to lose his temper. “I know.
Ahn
. Always
ahn
. But just listen a minute, will you? Fuck
ahn
, and listen to me.”
    Wild Bill suddenly looked so hurt that