Evergreen Park never changes. Row after row, block after block, the brick bungalows march on, each a story and a half high, each featuring a Post-itsize backyard, each identical to the next save for the number on the front that tel s the mailman where to leave what. I parked at the corner of Albany and Ninety-fourth and walked a half block until I found the house I was looking for. The shades were pul ed tight, and there was no answer when I rang the bel. I took out a card and slipped it under the door.
I was almost back to my car when the curtain I’d been waiting for twitched next door. It’s the way things work on the Irish South Side-from the cars people drive to the newspapers they tuck under their arms; the cut of their clothes and the length of their hair; the shape of their faces, and, of course, the color of their skin. Al of it is filtered through the curtain that covers over the South Sider’s front window. Tel s people everything they need to know before they ever open their door and bid the stranger a cautious hel o.
I walked toward the house with the nervous curtain and hoped I’d passed muster. The door cracked its seal even as I reached for the buzzer. I could smel mothbal s and peppermint. A smal pink face peeked out and a pair of bright blue eyes blinked.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for your neighbor, Jim Doherty.”
The door opened another three inches to reveal a head of white hair.
“You looking for Jimmy?” the old woman said.
I nodded. “He’s an old police buddy of mine. Thought I might catch him in.”
The woman moistened her lips at the new morsel of information. I was now a cop, which helped a lot in this neighborhood.
“What’s your name?” she said.
“Michael Kel y.”
The door creaked al the way open. “Peg McNabb. Come on in.”
She walked back to a yel ow couch covered in plastic. I sat in a matching yel ow chair, also covered in plastic. A TV ran WGN’s news in the corner with the sound muted. A clock ticked on one wal, and a couple of crucifixes framed a picture of JFK on the opposite wal. Underneath the picture was a smal table, with a Bible and some holy water in a glass bottle. Peg had her dinner, a sliver of gray meat, potatoes, and peas, on a metal tray in front of her.
“He’s not home,” she said and gummed down a mouthful of spuds.
“Any idea when he might be back?”
“Not sure.” Peg cut off a smal piece of meat and chewed it up in quick bites. Then she raised her head and howled, “Denny.”
Her voice summoned forth two creatures from the darkness beyond the hal way. The first was an old man, long and alabaster white, wearing a blue T-shirt and red pajama bottoms. He had a toothpick in his mouth, thick dark glasses perched on his nose, and a can of Old Style hanging loose in one hand. The second figure was an echo of the first, right down to the plastic glasses and beer, except he was thirty years younger.
“This is Denny and Denny Jr.,” Peg said. “Junior’s just visiting.”
I nodded at the pair of them. Life sometimes moved in a closed and curious circle on the South Side.
“He’s looking for Jim.” Peg’s duty done, she turned up the volume on the TV. Tom Skil ing was tel ing us it was stil warm for this time of year, but probably going to get colder. Peg grumbled at Tom under her breath. Her husband took a seat on the couch. Her son wandered back to the kitchen and, presumably, dinner.
“You looking for Jimmy?” Denny McNabb wrinkled his already wrinkled forehead.
“He’s an old cop buddy of mine,” I said.
“Chicago cop?”
“Yeah. I was on the force with Jim just before he retired.”
“I was gonna say, you’re kind of young to have been working with old Jim.”
Denny grinned at his own cleverness and looked over to his wife for a bit of silent applause. Peg ignored him, as the five-day forecast was on. The old man found some solace in his can of beer and returned to our conversation.
“Jimmy comes and goes. We always say he’s retired, but you’d never know it. On the go, al the time.”
I nodded. “Any idea when he might be back in town?”
“I didn’t say he was out of town.”
“Is he in town?”
“Saw him this morning, didn’t we?” Peg bobbed her head in confirmation, and Denny Sr. continued, “He waved hel o. Jumped in his car and was off. Wel, speak of the devil.”
True to his South Side roots, Denny was keeping an eye on the front window. There, through the curtain, was Jim Doherty, large as life, rol ing through the night and up the front walk. Denny pul ed the door open before Doherty had made it halfway to the stoop. I stepped out. My pal shook his head and laughed.
“Jesus H. Christ. Michael Kel y.” Doherty held out his hand, and I grasped it. The grip was rough and strong.
“You looking for me?” the retired cop said.
“Sort of,” I said. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t. Just thought I’d stop in and say hel o to these two. That your car?” Doherty jerked a thumb toward the street. I nodded. “These folks saw me at your door. Kind enough to help me track you down.”
Denny and Peg hopped around Jim Doherty like he was Irish royalty, if such a thing exists.
“Thanks for hauling him in here,” Doherty said.
Denny nodded. “Told him you’d be around, Jimmy.” The old woman moved aside to let Doherty into the house.
“No, no, Peg. Michael here is a busy man.” Doherty glanced my way. I nodded in agreement.
“I’m just going to take him over for a cup of tea and a chat. I’l come by tomorrow and we can catch up.” Jim winked at the couple and nudged me down the walk. I felt their eyes on my back as I moved away. Doherty swung his arms by his sides and laughed as we walked.
“Fuck’s sake, Kel y. You get inside that house, you’l be lucky to come out at al. I’m here.”
The ex-cop turned down his driveway, toward the back door. On the South Side, front doors were for first-time visitors. Everyday traffic knew better and went around back.
“You want some tea,” Doherty said and hung his coat on a hook in the kitchen. I shrugged. Doherty steered me toward a large table.
“Sit down. I got what you want in the other room.”
“You know why I’m here?”
Doherty used a match to light the stove and put on a kettle. “Course I know why you’re here. Now sit down. You’re making me nervous.”