I needed an afternoon free and had already spent the money that might have bought it. Capone sat behind me while I drove toward a private appointment, his gloves resting on one knee. I watched the road and rehearsed my request until every version sounded like an excuse. At a crossing, a wagon forced us to stop. He glanced toward the window. “Something wrong with the car?” “No.” “Then why are you handling it like a sick horse?”
I told him about the missed pickup before asking for anything. He had heard enough already to know I had stopped for an injured man. I could not tell from his face whether my account improved matters. When traffic moved, he told me to continue. The appointment was in an upstairs office over a quiet storefront. I parked, opened his door, and followed him as far as the landing. There, with no one else beside us, I asked for the afternoon.
“For the same fellow?” he asked. “For his truck. There’s an argument at Bell’s.” He removed one glove, finger by finger. “You fixing automobiles now?” “Trying to finish something I started.” I had meant that to sound dependable. Standing under his attention, I heard how it might sound foolish instead. He asked how much work I intended to miss. I gave him the hours, not a speech about fairness. Below us, somebody wheeled a delivery through the storefront, its loose wheel knocking.
He asked after Rose, and the question caught me unprepared. During her illness he had advanced money for the doctor and medicines. The deductions from my wages had been regular; gratitude was harder to measure or finish. I said she was back at the laundry. “Good,” he said. “Keep her there instead of worrying her.” Then he looked directly at me. “Why is my driver making promises to people who don’t employ him?” I had no answer that would make both obligations respectable.
“I brought the fellow out,” I said. “I can’t pretend I didn’t.” Capone folded the glove into his other hand. “An afternoon. Not the car.” He went through the office door before I could thank him. I returned downstairs carrying permission that felt less generous than the medical advance had felt. Neither was a chain by itself. I supplied the links whenever I thought what refusing might cost. I drove back alone and left the car where the next man could find it.
At home, Rose was shaking a damp sheet across the kitchen table. I caught the far corners before they brushed the stove. We folded it together, bringing edge to edge as we had when our mother still inspected the work. Rose asked for the household money. I gave her what remained in my pocket and said I would bring the rest tomorrow. She counted it once. “Tomorrow the coal man wants yesterday’s money.” “You’ll have it.” She did not ask where the difference had gone.
That omission should have made confession easier. Instead, I lifted the finished laundry basket and carried it down two flights for her. The straps cut my fingers. She followed with another bundle balanced against her hip, refusing my offer to take both. At the street she told me her wages were not waiting money. I said I knew. She had missed enough work during the illness without my making her carry a debt she had never agreed to. Still, I kept Frank’s receipt inside my coat.
I found an extra driving shift that evening, taking over for a man whose wife was having a baby. There was no glamour in it: passengers at back doors, long waits, a cold sandwich eaten standing beside the car. Near midnight, I helped a heavy man climb three slippery steps and returned to discover a tire had gone soft. Changing it in the gutter took the feeling from my hands. I earned enough to replace Rose’s share, though none of my deposit came back.
Paul found me washing road dirt from the wheel spokes before dawn. He leaned against the washroom door, rested and shaved. “Bruno won’t talk to you alone,” he said. “I noticed.” “I can arrange the truck. One yard, everybody there, no more running between doors.” I straightened too quickly and struck my shoulder against the fender. Paul waited while I rubbed it. His offer was the first practical way out anybody had given me, which made me distrust how badly I wanted it.
I asked whether Frank had agreed. Paul said he could handle Frank. “And the collision?” I asked. His expression closed. “You want the handover, stop asking who started it.” I dried my hands before I answered. Then I asked him when.