it hunched away into the slanting sheets of gray rain, gradually fading as though it had been a mirage. When it moved around the corner and out of sight at the end of the block, he could easily have been convinced that it had been another hallucination.
6
THE LAWYER CONDUCTED BUSINESS FROM THE SECOND FLOOR OF A BRICK building on Main Street, above the Old Town Tavern. The barroom was closed on Sunday afternoons, but small neon signs for Rolling Rock and Pabst Blue Ribbon still glowed in its windows brightly enough to tint the rain green and blue as it fell past the glass.
The law offices of Henry Kadinska occupied two rooms off a dimly lighted hallway that also served a real-estate office and a dentist. The door stood open to the reception room.
Joey stepped inside and said, "Hello?"
The inner door was ajar, and from beyond it a man responded. "Please come in, Joey."
The second room was larger than the first, although still of modest proportions. Law books lined two walls; on another, a pair of diplomas hung crookedly. The windows were covered with wood-slat venetian blinds of a type that probably had not been manufactured in fifty years, revealing horizontal slices of the rainy day.
Identical mahogany desks stood at opposite ends of the room. At one time Henry Kadinska had shared the space with his father, Lev, who had been the town's only lawyer before him. Lev had died when Joey was a senior in high school. Unused but well polished, the desk remained as a monument.
Putting his pipe in a large cut-glass ashtray, Henry rose from his chair, reached across the desk, and shook Joey's hand. "I saw you at Mass, but I didn't want to intrude."
"I didn't notice ... anyone," Joey said.
"How're you doing?"
"Okay. I'm okay."
They stood awkwardly for a moment, not sure what to say. Then Joey sat in one of the two commodious armchairs that faced the desk.
Kadinska settled back into his own chair and picked up his pipe. He was in his midfifties, slightly built, with a prominent Adam's apple. His head seemed somewhat too large for his body, and this disproportionateness was emphasized by a hairline that had receded four or five inches from his brow. Behind his thick glasses, his hazel eyes seemed to have a kindly aspect.
"You found the house key where I told you?"
Joey nodded.
"The place hasn't changed all that much, has it?" Henry Kadinska asked.
"Less than I expected. Not at all, really."
"Most of his life, your dad didn't have any money to spend - and when he finally got some, he didn't know how to spend it." He touched a match to his pipe and drew on the mouthpiece. "Drove P.J. crazy that Dan wouldn't use much of what he gave him."
Joey shifted uneasily in his chair. "Mr. Kadinska ... I don't understand why I'm here. Why did you need to see me?"
"P.J. still doesn't know about your dad?"
"I've left messages on the answering machine in his New York apartment. But he doesn't really live there. Only for a month or so each year."
The pipe was fired up again. The air was redolent of cherry-scented tobacco.
In spite of the diplomas and books, the room wasn't much like an average law office. It was a cozy place - shabby-genteel but cozy. Slumped in his chair, Henry Kadinska seemed to be as comfortable in his profession as he might have been in a pair of pajamas.
"Sometimes," Joey said, "he doesn't call that number for days, even a week or two."
"Funny way to live - nearly always on the road. But I guess it's right for him."
"He seems to thrive on it."
"And it results in those wonderful books," said Kadinska.
"Yes."
"I dearly love P.J.'s books."
"Virtually everyone does."
"There's a marvelous sense of freedom in them, such a ... such a spirit.
6
THE LAWYER CONDUCTED BUSINESS FROM THE SECOND FLOOR OF A BRICK building on Main Street, above the Old Town Tavern. The barroom was closed on Sunday afternoons, but small neon signs for Rolling Rock and Pabst Blue Ribbon still glowed in its windows brightly enough to tint the rain green and blue as it fell past the glass.
The law offices of Henry Kadinska occupied two rooms off a dimly lighted hallway that also served a real-estate office and a dentist. The door stood open to the reception room.
Joey stepped inside and said, "Hello?"
The inner door was ajar, and from beyond it a man responded. "Please come in, Joey."
The second room was larger than the first, although still of modest proportions. Law books lined two walls; on another, a pair of diplomas hung crookedly. The windows were covered with wood-slat venetian blinds of a type that probably had not been manufactured in fifty years, revealing horizontal slices of the rainy day.
Identical mahogany desks stood at opposite ends of the room. At one time Henry Kadinska had shared the space with his father, Lev, who had been the town's only lawyer before him. Lev had died when Joey was a senior in high school. Unused but well polished, the desk remained as a monument.
Putting his pipe in a large cut-glass ashtray, Henry rose from his chair, reached across the desk, and shook Joey's hand. "I saw you at Mass, but I didn't want to intrude."
"I didn't notice ... anyone," Joey said.
"How're you doing?"
"Okay. I'm okay."
They stood awkwardly for a moment, not sure what to say. Then Joey sat in one of the two commodious armchairs that faced the desk.
Kadinska settled back into his own chair and picked up his pipe. He was in his midfifties, slightly built, with a prominent Adam's apple. His head seemed somewhat too large for his body, and this disproportionateness was emphasized by a hairline that had receded four or five inches from his brow. Behind his thick glasses, his hazel eyes seemed to have a kindly aspect.
"You found the house key where I told you?"
Joey nodded.
"The place hasn't changed all that much, has it?" Henry Kadinska asked.
"Less than I expected. Not at all, really."
"Most of his life, your dad didn't have any money to spend - and when he finally got some, he didn't know how to spend it." He touched a match to his pipe and drew on the mouthpiece. "Drove P.J. crazy that Dan wouldn't use much of what he gave him."
Joey shifted uneasily in his chair. "Mr. Kadinska ... I don't understand why I'm here. Why did you need to see me?"
"P.J. still doesn't know about your dad?"
"I've left messages on the answering machine in his New York apartment. But he doesn't really live there. Only for a month or so each year."
The pipe was fired up again. The air was redolent of cherry-scented tobacco.
In spite of the diplomas and books, the room wasn't much like an average law office. It was a cozy place - shabby-genteel but cozy. Slumped in his chair, Henry Kadinska seemed to be as comfortable in his profession as he might have been in a pair of pajamas.
"Sometimes," Joey said, "he doesn't call that number for days, even a week or two."
"Funny way to live - nearly always on the road. But I guess it's right for him."
"He seems to thrive on it."
"And it results in those wonderful books," said Kadinska.
"Yes."
"I dearly love P.J.'s books."
"Virtually everyone does."
"There's a marvelous sense of freedom in them, such a ... such a spirit.
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