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Audrey thinks, until someone vomits pepperoni all over the corner late one night.
    And then it comes time for Audrey’s father to speak. She sits up in her chair once she realizes she’s been slouching. Captain Jim takes the podium, sunglasses still on his face. She hasn’t heard her father’s voice in close to three years.
    “Good morning,” he says. “My name is James Walczak. Officer Stanisław Walczak was my father. As I stand here today, I’m humbled. I’ve never been more proud to be a member of the Philadelphia Police Department. I’d like to thank Commissioner…”
    From there, Captain Jim goes off on a litany of thanks, from the commissioner up to the mayor and back down again, hitting pretty much everybody who needs to be name-checked. It doesn’t sound like her father at all. Even when he’s in total asshole mode, there’s still a weird, dark humor to him. His speech isn’t him. It could have been delivered by a robot.
    Captain Jim sits back down.
    Lieutenant Ben Wildey’s speech is much more animated. He’s George Wildey’s grandson—and surprise surprise, another cop.
    “I never met my grandpop George,” he says, “but I’ve heard a lot about him over the years. And from what I understand, I think he’d be upset that we weren’t spinning some soul tunes up in this j—corner.”
    Murmurs of polite laughter. Audrey giggles. She could have sworn he was about to say “… jawn .” Good on you, Lieutenant Ben.
    And then it’s finally time to unveil the plaques. A lone bugler plays “Nearer My God to Thee” as the roses are removed, and finally the flag, revealing the two bronze memorials set into the concrete.
    It would be super-classy, if not for the red, green and white sign tacked directly above:
    PHILLY CHEESE STEAK
    HOT ITALIAN SAUSAGE
    HOAGIE
    FRIES * WINGS
    ORDER INSIDE
    Order inside, Audrey thinks, and pray you make it out alive . She’s tipsy, but grateful that she’s not so drunk she’s saying this shit out loud.
    The commissioner hands the Captain a pillow. Audrey wonders if he’ll press it down over his own face just to get out of this memorial service.
    The head of the police union takes the podium.
    “To the relatives of Stan and George, please know that you will always be a member of the Philadelphia police family. This plaque joins the memories, recollections, written history, and the Walczak and Wildey families as further evidence that heroes protecting the citizens of Philadelphia were killed here in the line of duty. May God bless you.”
    The bugle plays taps.
    Bagpipes crank out some “Amazing Grace.”
    Audrey’s with Lieutenant Ben: she’d much prefer some soul tunes up in this jawn.
    The oldies DJ—who presumably could arrange such a thing—takes the mike to close things out.
    “See you next time,” he says.
      
    Audrey runs her fingers along the countertop, which is slightly greasy, even though the place has just opened for the day. Outside, the chairs are being folded up and put on a truck. The crowd is dispersing.
    She’s inside the pizza joint because she had to pee. But on the way back she stopped to look at the place. Tried to imagine it as it was fifty years ago, when it was a bar. She takes a step back and looks at the dimensions of the room, and then back down at the counter, and how long it is, and realizes, with a shock:
    They just covered up the actual bar. It’s still under there .
    Probably riddled with bullet holes.
    The Memorial Fund springs for a small buffet at a restaurant a few blocks away, on the corner of Twenty-First and Green. Cash bar, though, which is disappointing. She doesn’t think she has enough cash on hand for a Bloody.
    There are assigned seats, but once Audrey sees the other names on the cards (Bitchanne, Jean, brood) she opts for a stool at the bar in the next room, orders a Yuengling. When’s her plane out of here?
    The room, then, is segregated by design, just like the seating arrangement out on Fairmount