Shallow Graves

to come give me a hug, then wrinkle her nose. “You were right about your shirt.“
    “It’s only on its third day.“
    “Go.“
    “I thought you said I wouldn’t need any clothes?“
    “Don’t worry about whether they match.“
    “How about if I pick up some Chinese or Thai?“
    “Great. You have beer at the condo?“
    “Yes.“
    “Better bring some. I think I’m out.“
    I said, “You’re running a little low on wine, too.“
    “Small reward for a man who went so far above and beyond.“
    “They’re probably making up songs about me to chant around campfires.“
    Nancy’s eyes suddenly glistened. “John, please just go for a while, then come back.“
    I got serious. “Sure.“
    “I need some time alone with Renfield, and I know I’m going to cry and I don’t want you here again for that.“
    “Okay. I’ll be back around... 7“
    “Five?“
    “Five it is.“
    Another hug, this one longer despite the condition of my shirt. “Thank you, John. I mean it.“
    “I know.“

    The young black officer in front of the blue police barricade was smiling, but only barely. He’d just gotten through with a woman who seemed determined to get detour directions to North Carolina when I pulled up Berkeley Street to the intersection of Newbury and asked him what the trouble was.
    He hitched a thumb toward the river and said, “Walk for Hunger. Can’t cross Commonwealth for an hour or so.“
    Behind the barrier I could see a throng of people moving toward downtown on the Commonwealth Avenue mall. I nodded to the cop and turned left onto Newbury, lucking out with a metered space about halfway between Exeter and Fairfield. I left the Prelude and took Fairfield to Commonwealth, waiting for a lull in the parade to continue over toward Beacon.
    Young men and women in yellow T-shirts and orange safety vests clapped for the marchers and acted as crossing guards against occasional cars on the street. Literally hundreds of people were going by in a steady stream. All ages and colors, many wearing white painters’ hats. Lots of mothers and dads with little kids, most of them in shorts and athletic shoes but some wearing sweatshirts or sweaters against the early May air. They ate apples and pears pulled from small knapsacks, otherwise holding hands.
    Most of the marchers had yellow decals, big and round, with WALK FOR HUNGER and the date on them. Others had small buttons with the same legend and background. ‘Blaster radios and balloons, wheelchairs and strollers. Some folks were wilting, others almost goose-stepping with energy.
    I went up to one of the crossing guards. She had sandy hair parted in the center and tied into a ponytail and looked so collegiate it hurt. I asked her how far the marchers had come.
    “Twenty miles, most of them.“
    “You’re kidding?“
    “Uh-unh. Almost forty thousand people this year, and we hope to raise four million dollars for the homeless and the hungry, most of it going to Project Bread.“
    I thought about the last homeless person I’d known, a guy who had trained me for the marathon. I took out my wallet and handed her a twenty.
    She looked at it and said, “What’s that?“
    “A donation.“
    “But I’m not like, authorized or anything.“
    “I’m not worried about where it’ll end up. Take it.“
    She did. “Well, thanks. Have a nice day, huh?“
    I should have remembered that the last person to say that to me was one Lieutenant Holt of Boston Homicide.

    “Cuddy!“
    I was about to put my key in the lock of the front door of the condo building when I heard the voice over the opening of a car door. Turning around, I saw Primo Zuppone standing at the curb, the driver’s side of his Lincoln still open, one of his hands resting on top of the window frame. The leather coat lay on the leather seat behind him.
    Zuppone said, “Where the fuck you been?“
    I went back to the lock. “Nursing a sick friend.“
    His footsteps came across the sidewalk and up the stoop as I pushed on the door. He put his hand on my arm. I looked down at the hand, then up to his face, the pockmarks seeming a little inflamed.
    “Cuddy, you gotta understand something.“
    “First take your hand off my arm.“
    Zuppone sent out a little breath, but let go of my arm. With an effort.
    “Cuddy, you’re supposed to coordinate with me.“
    “Not the way I remember it. You’re supposed to help me, if I need help.“
    “Hey-ey-ey,“ the loose tone back, “don’t you think I gotta