Always Say Goodbye: A Lew Fonesca Mystery Read Online Free PDF Page B

the University of Illinois Chicago campus. The university had embraced the neighborhood, threatened to engulf it, and eventually came to a mutually advantageous understanding.
    Lew had grown up in this neighborhood of stubborn, proud, often brilliant and sometimes crazy, first, second and a third generation of primarily Sicilian immigrants. He knew the streets, the parks and many of the families that had not been pressured out from the west by the constant expansion of the University of Illinois Medical Center, and from the east by the university’s ever-growing Chicago campus.
    Some thought the university had saved the neighborhood with dollars. Some thought the university had ended the neighborhood. Some lost their homes and had to move out, mostly to Bridgeport near the White Sox’s Cellular Field and an enclave of Italian-speaking residents within the mayor’s Irish home turf.
    Franco and Angela had stayed in Little Italy in a three-bedroom, eighty-year-old frame house on Cabrini Street across from Arrigo Park. There was a newer model Ford Pinto in the driveway, but not enough room for the tow truck.
    “So, remember Toro’s Garage?” Franco asked, pulling into a parking space on the street. “Still there. I throw business his way. He lets me park my cars. Got five now. Toro, he fixes ’em up, sells ’em. We split the profits. You need a car, you got your pick. I usually park at Toro’s and walk home, but today …”
    He parked between a Lexus and a dingy gray Saturn.
    They got out. Lew’s sister was in the doorway, hands at her sides, examining her brother as he crossed the street. Angela and Lew were born a year apart. He was the older. The family resemblance was clear, but there was something strong, almost pretty about her. She was wearing jeans and an orange long-sleeved pullover. Her dark hair was pulled back and tied with an old-fashioned orange ribbon Lew had given her for her twelfth birthday.
    She came forward to meet them.
    “Lewis,” she said. “All right if I—”
    “Yes,” he said, putting down his bag.
    She took five quick steps and hugged him. He felt her breasts, large like his mother’s, press warmly against him. He tried to hug her back, wanted to hug her, couldn’t. He didn’t want too many doors open, not now, not yet.
    Franco stood quietly a dozen feet away.
    “Welcome home,” she said, finally stepping back. “Hey, I’m crying. I was always the crier, right? Me and Pop. Let’s eat.”
    “Wait,” said Franco. “I picked up fifty bucks on the way home from a guy who was having car trouble. Let’s celebrate. Il Vicinato. Pollo Vesuvio. ”
    Angela looked at Lew and knew what to do.
    “Tomorrow, maybe,” she said.
    As they moved into the house, Angela said, “I’ve got that envelope. Thick. Guy brought it here a few days ago. Well-dressed, little pudgy, you know?”
    Lew knew who he was.
    “It’s on your bed, Teresa’s bed,” she said, taking his duffel and handing it to Franco who walked off with it.
    Nothing had changed except for the large screen television in the living room. Sicilian memories pre-1950s. Nothing modern. Everything comfortable, musky dark woods. Chairs and a sofa with muted dark-colored pillows that showed the indentation of three generations of Fonescas who had lived here.
    “Drink?” she asked, touching his shoulder as Lew sat in the chair Catherine always sat in when they came here. “Sangria ? Just made a batch from Uncle Tonio’s wine.”
    “Sure,” Lew said.
    “Coming up,” she said with a smile.
    When she left, Franco came back in the room and moved to the window.
    “I figure they know how to find us,” he said. “They got my license plate number. They’re doing the same thing to us we’re doing to them.”
    “I know.”
    “What do we do now?” Franco asked, moving from the window with a smile and a clap of thick hands.
    “Drink sangria, close our eyes, hope the wheels slow down, have something to eat,” Lew said as his