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a small machine. "You're going to join the twenty-first century whether you like it or not."
        "Yeah. Kicking and screaming. You're as bad as Jack."
        "It's been a while since you retired from library work. Let me introduce you to microfiche."
        And within moments I am happily knobturning, scanning article after article about the two women. Finally I lean back, sated.
    "Now, was that so hard to take?"
        "OK. OK, I loved it, but don't you dare tell Jack I said that."
        "Scout's honor. What did you learn?"
        "More coincidences. Both widowed from very wealthy husbands a few years ago and both remarried fairly soon after. Also, these society gals are in the papers and magazines whatever they do. Charities. Vacations. Parties. Family statistics—births, deaths, et cetera. When they sneeze it makes the news."
        "But?"
        "There's hardly anything written about their latest husbands. No big write-ups about the nuptials. No fancy wedding photos. Mr. Sampson was in plumbing. Mr. Martinson was in the entertainment business. Was. But are they still? Nada. Isn't that odd? As if there were a news blackout covering the second-time-around hubbies."
        "And what do you make of all that?"
        "Nothing yet."
        I look at my watch. "Gotta go or, God forbid, I'll be late for the early-bird special at Nona's."
        Conchetta walks with me to the checkout counter and stamps my books. "You might need a textbook," she says as she reaches under the counter. "I picked this out for you a few minutes ago."
        She surreptitiously hands me a copy of the Kama Sutra.

    12

    The Men in My Life

    I 'm about to leave my apartment on my way to meet Jack and Morrie for our Friday night dinner date, when the phone rings. One of the girls? A possible client? I could let it ring. I now have an answering machine, thanks to Jack's persuasiveness. "It's so simple an idiot could work it" was what he said to convince me. I didn't know whether to smack him or kiss him. I did a little of both.
        I grab the phone before the machine picks up. Old habits die hard.
        It's our client calling. "Hi, Mrs. Siciliano."
        "Any news?"
        "Not yet. I told you I'd get in touch with you as soon as something developed."
        "Don't you think I know that?" Mrs. Siciliano humphs.
        I think to myself, This Angelina is one tough cookie. Of course I don't use her first name when I talk to her. She's not much into familiarity.
        "I just called to tell you you're off duty for a while. My cousin died, and me and Elio are leaving for the wake and the funeral. We'll be gone a coupla days. So if you stake him out, you're staking for nothing."
        "Thanks for letting me know. I'm sorry about your loss—" I start to say.
        But she's already hung up.

    Morrie has been entertaining us with stories from the recently built police station on Oakland Park Boulevard as he, Jack, and I share sushi in a charming Japanese restaurant in Margate.
        "So we drag him into the station—the guy's just robbed his own neighborhood bank, where everybody knows him, and all he wants to talk about is redecorating our building. 'Who picked out this pissant wall color? A blind guy?' he demands to know, this Martha Stewart of stupid thieves. Maybe he'd like us to decorate the walls with the hundred-dollar bills we found stashed all over his body?"
        I look from father to son. Morrie is sitting across from me. Now I know what Jack looked like when he was in his thirties. When he married Faye and had this lovely son. Lucky Morrie—if he continues to take after his dad, he'll be just as attractive a man at Jack's age.
        Jack is laughing at this wry account. Over the years Morrie must have shared a lot of war stories with him.
        "Hey, Dad," he says, "tell her about the time you captured that crazy doper who locked his pals in a basement for a week when he was high