Park Lane South, Queens by Mary Anne Kelly Read Free Book Online Page A

contents of her purse right after it.
    â€œ This is what I think of your store that has been so totally disheveled! You’re not only an exaggerator, you’re … you’re without resiliency! My dog is not a ‘shit’ as you so loudly proclaim, he happens to be the mayor of this town. And I am no Schiksa floozie but an American who finds you extremely constipated!”
    Well, this was all too much for the crew of Italians. Claire’s rage was just too magnificent. They collapsed into peals of laughter and a barrage of lewd Sicilian expletives.
    Infuriated, Claire whirled around and yelled, “ Stati zita, imbecile !” right in Johnny Benedetto’s minding-his-own-business face.
    â€œListen, honey—” Johnny protested.
    â€œDon’t call me ‘honey’!” hollered Claire and she snapped away, tripped, and flew over the chicken, marched past the astonished shopkeeper, and hurried down the hill, her knees still trembling with indignation and the face of that … that thoroughly obnoxious Italian. Mollified by all of this off-with-their-heads, the Mayor followed at a respectful distance, his tail muscled down between his legs in solemn retribution, his snout a neat mask of the called-for chagrin. But, by jove, he was pleased.

CHAPTER 2
    Zinnie roared into the driveway. Wherever Zinnie went she was off to a fire. She screeched to a halt, bounded from the car, and stopped dead in her tracks. If there was one thing Zinnie couldn’t take, it was crawly things, and silver-dollar-sized, dark red spiders had been spinning webs from Park Lane South to Myrtle. “Oh, Christ,” she said out loud and ran into the house.
    All through the woods and two blocks overflowing on the Richmond Hill side were these doilies five feet and more in diameter. It didn’t help to tear them down. The spiders had their web sites obstinately chosen and, tzaktzak, they’d only build them up again, good as new, right where you’d torn them down. No one had seen the likes of it since the caterpillar blitzkrieg back in 1957. And Zinnie, who wouldn’t bat an eye over a gun-drawn gallop through a subway station at midnight after some fleeing Rastafarians, and that without a backup anywhere in sight, would whimper at the very idea of a bug near her. Once inside, she slammed the kitchen screen door and shivered, safe.
    Carmela was setting the table. She was doing it pink and green, in all seriousness, to set off the fillet of sole. Michaelaen, who’d been doing his best to irritate her by driving a matchbox truck in furrows along the tablecloth, stood up on his chair and threw his arms open in mute welcome when he saw Zinnie. She scooped him up and threw him over her head. “Rrrowwll,” she bit the tummied gap between shorts and T-shirt. “Where’s the salt and pepper? This is my dinner right here!” Michaelaen squirmed with delighted horror and rolled his truck into her mouth.
    â€œWe’re invaded,” Zinnie announced. “They’re taking over!”
    Carmela made “Twilight Zone” noises and Michaelaen watched her with big eyes.
    â€œThe spider webs?” Mary didn’t look up from her mushrooms. Peeling mushrooms was one of her peculiarities. Nobody else peeled mushroom tops, but she did.
    â€œThey’re something, all right,” agreed Carmela. “Revolting.”
    â€œYour father likes the spiders,” Mary defended them.
    â€œMe, too,” said Michaelaen.
    Stan peeked his head in (speak of the devil), wanting to know when dinner would be ready.
    â€œRight after you go wash the sawdust off your face and hands,” Mary poked him out of the doorway. “And you stay off my clean linoleum!”
    â€œI wish he’d go back to Vivaldi,” Carmela shook her head at the retreating mezzo staccato. “At least then we didn’t have to listen to the words.” Wherever Stan went he was locked to