“There!” She points out a cyclist who speeds by and pounds on his hood. At the same instant, the passenger door opens and shuts.
Squinting, I enlarge the image and for the first time, consider calling my uncle. “I can’t see who did it can you?”
“Not from this angle. Shit. We need more surveillance of the surrounding area.”
While she’s busy, I ring Slate, bring him up to date, and share our itinerary.
“Copy that. I got your six.” He hangs up.
After, Sam packs, stopping every so often to jot stuff down in a notepad. “We can’t possibly have a baby. This apartment is deadly. Where will be put the crib?”
“Downstairs?” I swivel us in my chair and point to the space under the loft. “I could wall it in and make it into a small bedroom?”
“I thought of that too but it makes me think of poor Harry Potter.”
“How about upstairs?”
“Oh my God, no. The baby could fall to the floor below.” She shoots me a shocked look.
“So, this isyousaying we have to move.” It’s a good thing I took an online course in wife-speak. They sure can be obtuse.
Her fingers thread between mine as she bites her lower lip. “Did you know there’s an apartment space above Rose and Mia’s?”
“No, I did not.” There is no way in hell we are moving back there but I will explain this at a later date.
“It’s huge and I’m sure Vinny would give us a good deal.”
“Sugar, the last time you rented from him, he took your payment in blind dates.” My only explanation for her lapse in judgment is a hormonal imbalance.
“We’ll get an iron clad contract.”
“No.”
“But what else can we afford?”
“I am not walking by Joey every time I enter my apartment.” I recall how it was when we were dating and shudder. Every damn time I walked in the door, he was there with some lame-ass comment.
“We could build a back stairway?”
“To the third floor? How will that work with a baby in your arms?”
“Just think about it. Please?”
“Yeah nah.” I learned that phrase from my pal Lucky but never understood it’s use until this moment.
My wife eyes me in the way that means the conversation isn’t over. “We need to talk to Father O, too.”
“Because?”
“Baptism classes… and Lamaze classes and nursing classes and-”
“He does all those, too?”
She snickers. “No, of course not.”
I snatch her pen and notepad. “Pack. I promise we’ll make plenty of time for worryin’ on the beach.”
Her eyes water and her lower lip turns out. “I’m sorry. I know I’m being ridiculous. I just want to do everything right.”
