The staked Goat

be taking him home to Pittsburgh. Our flight is tonight at six-fifty. So I won’t be coming by for a while.”
    The wind rose up, blowing a little sleet in front of it. I turned up my collar and hunkered down on my haunches. I touched her grave with the fingers of my right hand.
    ”Give Al my best,” I said.
     
    Hanover Street is the main drag of the North End. Tourists and people from other parts of the Boston area cruise it, futilely searching for a parking place near the dozens of Italian restaurants which lie along or just off it. Most of the buildings have a commercial first floor, often a bakery or butcher shop. The remaining floors are apartments. In good weather, the women, young, middle-aged, and old, lean out of windows with their elbows on the sills.
    On street level, the men, also of all ages, congregate in knots of three to five on the sidewalk. Some sit in folding lawn chairs, most talk in staccato Italian. Few pay much attention to non-neighborhood people walking by. A lot of Bostonians maintain that the North End is the safest neighborhood in the city.
    Seven-sixty-seven Hanover had a small insurance agency on the ground floor. I walked to the doorway next to it and pressed the D’Amicos’ bell. The door was painted dark gray, with six stained-glass inserts. I waited two minutes and pressed again. Still no answer. The sleet had blown over, and the sun was out. It was nearly forty degrees, and I felt a little warm in my overcoat.
    One of four men talking in front of the bakery next door broke off and walked toward me. He was short and stubby, wearing a heavy blue knit sweater over black dress slacks. He appeared to be about my age, and he neither frowned nor smiled.
    ”Who you lookin’ for?” he asked me.
    ”The D’Amicos,” I said.
    ”Which ones?” he replied.
    ”Mr. and Mrs. Joey and Marco’s parents.”
    ”The D’Amicos,” he said. ”They had a lotta heartache this week. Maybe they don’t wanna see nobody just now, y’know.”
    ”I know, and I can understand it. That’s why I want to see them.”
    He squinted. ”You ain’t a cop, are ya?”
    ”No,” I said. ”If I were a cop, I would have ignored you and kept pressing their button.”
    He rubbed his nose. Then he leaned in front of me and gave their button three quick taps. He looked me square in the eye. ”My parents and the D’Amicos come over together. The parents are good people. I went to school with Marco. I don’t know which of the sons give ‘em more trouble, Marco or Joey. Just don’t add to it.”
    ”I’m here to prevent trouble for them.”
    My emissary broke eye contact as the downstairs door opened. Mr. D’Amico poked his red-eyed head outside. He recognized me and snarled something in Italian to my companion that contained Joey’s name.
    My companion stiffened and started, ”Mr. D’Amico says you’re—”
    ”I’m not here about Joey,” I interrupted sharply. ”I’m here about Marco, and I need to talk with Mr. and Mrs. D’Amico.” I lowered my voice. ”Please tell him it’s important.”
    Mr. D’Amico spoke. ”He don’t need to tell me no thing. I understand English. If you about Marco, we will talk. Upstairs.”
    Mr. D’Amico turned and I stopped the spring-held door as he started up the narrow staircase.
    As I stepped across the threshold, my emissary caught my arm. Not hard or threatening, just a firm grip-
    ”When you come out, nobody up there better be cryin’.”
    I looked over his shoulder at the knot of men he’d left. They were all staring at us. I looked down as steadily as I could at my emissary, who bobbed his head once and released my arm. I followed D’Amico up the stairway, the closing door darkening the passage.
    Their living room was clean, dry, and awfully warm with all the windows closed. The sofa and chairs were overstuffed, with elaborate crocheted doilies on the arms and backs. Religious scenes dotted the walls, and I could make out photos of younger Marcos and Joeys in triptych brass frames standing on the end tables.
    D’Amico sat stiffly on the couch. I was in a flower-print chair across from him. He wore an old, narrow-collar white shirt and brown sharkskin pants. I could neither see nor hear Mrs. D’Amico.
    ”I have no desire to add to your grief, Mr. D’Amico,” I began, ”but I would like to speak with your wife as well.”
    D’Amico swallowed twice. He barely unclenched his teeth. ”She too upset from the... from the trial. You tell me what