“And that note Zio Angelo wrote?” Tony said. “The one that said ‘Trying to kill me’?”
“Oh my God!” Julia said.
Michael frowned. “He did scribble something like that on his pad. But Zio Angelo had told me in Ann Arbor his heart medicine sometimes made him paranoid. When I explained this to Mr. Hagmann, he agreed we shouldn’t take it seriously, and he offered to make us all a cup of tea.”
“And then he called the cops on you!” Tony said.
“Obviously, Mr. Hagmann has some issues with the fact that Zio Angelo decided to leave this place to us instead of him,” Michael said.
“Birnbaum told me he had a meltdown at the reading of the will,” Julia said.
Michael confirmed this. It was a small gathering: Michael, Nonno Guido, two distant cousins from the Saporiti side, and Benedict Hagmann. Just as Birnbaum was about to announce who would get the house, Hagmann stood up and declared he possessed a more recent version of the will—with an addendum he had personally typed out for Angelo himself—changing the original inheritor from his half nephew, Michelangelo DiMarco, to himself, Benedict Hagmann. Birnbaum was happy to concede that Angelo’s signature on the addendum was authentic. But it wasn’t the will’s most recent change. Birnbaum then showed everyone the will Michael had unwittingly sent off to him a few days earlier. It also included Hagmann’s addendum. But Zio Angelo had crossed out Hagmann’s name in ballpoint pen. In the margin, he had scribbled a few spidery lines declaring he now wished to award the house to his great-nephew Tony, who would one day understand why. Meantime, his nephew Michael would serve as custodian until Tony reached the age of majority. There were also two odd stipulations: that Tony sleep in the attic, and that the house not be sold to anyone—including Benedict Hagmann himself—unless there was a documented emergency. At that point, Hagmann flew into a rage. He didn’t want or need another house. It was the principle of the thing. He definitely smelled a rat here, especially regarding those two stipulations. He had seen evidence of foul play with his own eyes, and he would be alerting the authorities. Angelo’s death would be avenged if it was the last thing he did. “We were all sort of stunned,” Michael concluded. “But Birnbaum assured me the changes to Zio Angelo’s will were ironclad, and that I should just ignore Mr. Hagmann’s threats.”
The doorbell rang. Michael said he’d get it. He headed up to the front hallway.
“Maybe he’s just a complete lunatic,” Julia said to Tony.
“Maybe,” Tony said. Or maybe he’s a murderer, like half his ancestors.
“Look who’s here,” Michael said, returning to the kitchen.
Old Man Hagmann, and he was holding a bouquet of yellow roses.
“I’ve come to apologize,” he said. “And welcome you all to Hangmen Court.” He handed Julia the flowers.
“Are you kidding?” Tony said.
Hagmann hung his head. “I know we haven’t gotten off on terribly good footing,” he said. “But I’ve been in a total state since Angelo’s passing. Overcome with grief. I was looking for someone to blame. I see that now. It’s time to accept Angelo’s final wishes and move on.”
“Are you kidding?” Tony said again.
“My only hope is that we can put this terrible misunderstanding behind us and become good friends as well as good neighbors.”
“Of course we can,” Michael said, beaming. But he would. He was a Buddhist.
“Wrong foot, my foot,” Tony said.
Julia shot him a cool-it glance. She asked Old Man Hagmann—a bit uncertainly—if he would like a glass of lemonade. Hagmann said that would be delightful. Julia said she’d just put the roses in water. Were they from his garden? Hagmann told her they were a prize-winning hybrid tea called Golden Peace.
Tony could not believe his ears.
Michael offered Hagmann a seat in the breakfast nook, apologizing for the stuffiness of the kitchen. But it was still the only room free of boxes. Unfortunately the back deck, where they might have caught a breeze, had collapsed earlier that afternoon.
“I noticed,” Hagmann said, perching on the bench. He accepted a glass of lemonade from Julia. “A pity Angelo let the place go so badly.” He took a sip. “I rather suspect that porch is just the tip of the iceberg.”
“God forbid,” Julia said, rapping the table.
“Inheriting a free place to live hasn’t turned out to be all that free,” Michael said.
“If I were you, I would be tempted to cut my losses,” Hagmann said. “Sell the house. Buy someplace more suitable for a growing family.”
“Except we can’t,” Michael said. “Not even to you, according to those final stipulations in Zio Angelo’s will. Not until Tony, here, is a legal adult.”
“I forgot about that,” Hagmann said. “Unless there’s a dire emergency.”
“God forbid,” Julia said again, knocking on her head this time.
Hagmann set his unfinished lemonade on the table. He stood. He said he didn’t want to impose on their evening. “By the way,” he said, “I seem to have misplaced a small black key, one that must have fallen off the silver chain I wear around my neck.” He pulled it out by that odd triple spiral, the one Tony had spied at the hardware store. Up close, it looked really, really old. “I’ve searched my own house from top to bottom. I must have lost it while making one of my morning visits to Angelo. It’s not valuable, just a family keepsake every first Hagmann son gets on his thirteenth birthday. But if you or one of the boys finds it, would you please let me know?”
Michael and Julia promised they would.
“So all is forgotten?” Hagmann said to Tony, grimacing with his long yellow teeth.
Tony shrugged. He knew exactly where that key was. He had tucked it into his wallet after finding it wedged between two floorboards under the bed in the parlor.
“All’s well that ends well,” Michael said, ruffling Tony’s hair.
“Excellent,” Hagmann said. “I’ll just see myself out.”
Tony cleared the rest of the table while Michael did the dishes and Julia stowed leftovers in the fridge. Michael said they might as well take the high road with Hagmann; his apology had seemed sincere enough, and no real harm had been done. Julia agreed they had bigger fish to fry, anyway. How on earth were they going to come up with the money to fix that back deck? They couldn’t just leave the holes in the wall, and most of their savings had already been used up by the move cross-country.
“I’ll just have to find a summer course to teach,” Michael said. “Maybe you could start calling around for some freelance work.”
“And where exactly am I supposed to do it?” Julia said.
“The dining table?” Michael winced.
Tony tuned out. He wondered instead what he would say to Angelo and Solly when he got back upstairs. It was now official: Angelo had died of natural causes. Hagmann had dropped all charges. Michael had been released from the station. Just a big misunderstanding. Everyone was letting bygones be bygones. He stopped at the second-floor coffin corner to text Sarah Pickles an update: Dad free. No murder. Hagmann sorry. Case closed.
Case closed. Right?
o all’s well that ends well, I guess,” Tony concluded.
Both Angelo and Solly stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Except that I get murdered by Benny Hagmann,” Angelo said. “And he gets away with it, scot-free.”
“The coroner swears you died of natural causes,” Tony said.
“You don’t believe that for a second,” Angelo said. “And neither do I.”
“Plus Cyril Hagmann is going to ruin my major-league baseball career by calling me a communist,” Solly said.
“Not to mention the fact that his father, Chester Hagmann, causes Finn McGinley to disappear forever,” Angelo added.
“Forever?” Tony said. “What do you mean, forever?”
“That’s the bad news I was just about to tell you when your brothers barged into the room,” Angelo said. “No one ever saw Finn
again after he dashed away from the bucket brigade at the synagogue. Some said he fled Boston and started a new life under an assumed name, so his wife could declare him dead on all his insurance policies and pay off his debts. Others said he was secretly bumped off by Frank Wallace for selling him millions of gallons of molasses that ended up on the cobblestones of the North End rather than in rum bottles. But no one knows for sure.”
Gloomy silence. A murder, a ruined ball career, and a total disappearance—all at the hands of the Hagmanns.
Tony’s face brightened. “Maybe none of that ever has to happen,” he said.
“Huh?” Angelo said.
“We know the Hagmanns are desperate to own Thirteen Hangmen Court, right? We also know they’re prepared to do a bunch of rotten things to get it. So why not just sell it to them before they do?”
“Because we all hate the Hagmanns,” Angelo said.
“So?”
“But Finn made a pact with friends not to,” Solly said. “Then he made me swear the same thing. And I’ll eventually make Angelo swear it too.”
“Which is probably why I end up stipulating in my will that you can’t even sell the place to a Hagmann—or anyone else—until you’re a grown-up,” Angelo pointed out.
“So?”
“What are you getting at?” Angelo said.
“Say we decide to turn back time a little more,” Tony said. “Say we conjure Finn with the pawcorance—when he’s thirteen, like us, and still living here. Say we find out why he’s made that pact against the Hagmanns and convince him not to—bury the hatchet, let bygones be bygones—since his grudge will only end in tears for all concerned. And say grown-up Finn is free to sell Number Thirteen to Chester Hagmann as soon as he officially owns the place. Suddenly everybody’s happy! Finn won’t have to disappear, Solly’s career with the Red Sox won’t get ruined, and best of all, Angelo won’t get bumped off. So what if none of us ever gets to live here? It’s not that nice a house. In fact, by the time Angelo leaves it to me, it’s falling down around my family’s ears and we can’t afford to fix it.”
“You mean change the course of history?” Angelo said.
“Just tweak it a little,” Tony said. “All we need is an object that connects Solly to thirteen-year-old Finn.”
“What about the claddagh ring?” Solly said. “When Finn slipped it on my finger, he said his brother Paddy gave it to him when he was thirteen.”
“Does it have anything nine-ish about it?” Tony said.
“I’m Jewish,” Solly said. “What do I know about Irish jewelry?”
“You hid it in the mezuzah case, right?” Tony said. “For safekeeping? Sneak down to the front stoop and bring it back, so we can have a good look at it.”
Solly said he couldn’t do that. Mameh was home from the deli now. She was standing out on the front stoop with all her friends, fretting about who hung the Irish knocker on the front door, wondering if it would cause even more tension between the Irish and the Jews. Angelo said he couldn’t go either. Mama’s bedroom was right above the front door. She was sure to hear and call the cops, thinking it was a robber. Only Tony himself was free to go down and see if the ring was still there after all these years.
In the weak glow of the sputtering gas lamps, Tony squinted at the knocker on the front door. He had never really noticed the heart-and-hands design, probably because the whole thing had been painted over a half dozen times. He glanced up to the right doorpost. He could just make out four tiny paint-filled holes where the mezuzah must have been before Solly pried it off. Next he crouched to examine where the building met the stoop. He spied the brown brick from Solly’s story. Sure enough, the mortar around it had all but crumbled away. He tugged until it slid out. He reached into the hollow behind and grabbed a small rectangular metal case, imprinted with a Hebrew character. He pocketed it, slid the brick back into the hollow, and stood up.
Blinding white light.
“Now what are you doing?” Angey asked, beaming a flashlight into his eyes.
“Sleepwalking?” Tony said.
“You’ve been acting totally weird since we moved here,” Angey said.
“That’s what you always say about me,” Tony said, trying to brush past him.
“I’m serious—why are you out on the front stoop? It’s getting late.”
“I thought I heard a noise,” Tony said.
“Me too,” Angey said, extinguishing the flashlight. “Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if it was a ghost. This house totally creeps me out.”
Tony didn’t know how to answer. If Angey only knew! He just said good night and headed up the stairs. He didn’t look back until he got to his room, though he could feel Angey’s eyes on him the entire way. God, he wished he could lock his door!
Both Angelo and Solly could see the mezuzah in Tony’s hand as soon as he walked into the room. Unlike his cell phone, it was obviously part of the house for all of them. Solly took the case and shook out its contents: an hour-glass trickle of sugar followed by a gold ring. Tony and Angelo examined the ring while Solly poured the sugar back inside. Next, Solly grabbed the prayer scroll off the spiral and—disappearing for a moment—tucked it back inside the mezuzah. He reappeared as soon as he set the case on the spiral. Meanwhile, Tony showed Angelo an inscription engraved on the ring’s inner surface: P McG 9/9/89. Plenty of nine-ishness. He handed the ring to Solly, who set it on the spiral next to the restored mezuzah and cap. Tony then hovered his hand over everything. A faint static hum, but no voices yet.
“Say something to conjure Finn,” Tony advised Solly.
Solly thought for a second and then said, “Put the ring on the ring.”
They waited. Still no voices.
“It took a little time to conjure Solly,” Tony reminded them.
They all sat on the bed. Tony turned to Angelo. “So it actually works,” he said. “This whole not-eating-unless-you’re-really-hungry thing. I had, like, half as much at dinner as usual and I skipped dessert.” He turned to Solly to explain. “I’m trying to lose some weight. Angelo was actually teaching me a few Red Sox calisthenics before you turned up.”
“I’m a water boy at Fenway,” Angelo said.
“I tried out for that job,” Solly said. “They told me no Jews allowed, even though I had the best throwing arm of anybody.”
“Mine’s only so-so,” Angelo admitted. “I’m a better catcher.”
“Well, mine’s nonexistent.” Tony laughed.
“It’s all in the wrist,” Solly said. “I’ll show you. You got a ball?”
“Nope,” Tony said. Actually, he did. It was on his memorabilia shelf—signed by every Red Sox player of the 2004 World Series–winning team. But there was no point in saying so, since he knew neither Solly nor Angelo could see it.
“Sure we do,” Angelo said. He unscrewed the brass knob of the right bedpost. He tossed it over to Solly. Solly gave Tony a few pointers, then handed him the knob. Tony crossed the room and threw the knob back. Not bad for a first try.
Solly froze. He shouted something in Yiddish at the door, then switched to English so the others would understand. “What is it, Mameh?” He cocked his head to listen. “No, I don’t want any supper. That burned-cookie smell in the air is making me a little queasy. I think I’ll just crawl into bed.” He relaxed. “Coast clear,” he said. “Try again.” He tossed the knob back to Tony.
The three boys practiced for most of the night. It was amazing how much Tony’s aim improved as the hours passed. He even got the hang of a curveball, sort of. He had just needed somebody to show him the right way, instead of making fun of him for doing it the wrong way.
“It’s almost breakfast time,” Angelo said, winging the knob over to Solly. “And still no Finn. Should we try a more nine-ish object?”
Tony yawned. He told Solly to check for static on the claddagh ring. Solly threw Tony a wicked knuckleball and hovered his hand over the spiral. “Wait, I hear a kid’s voice!” he said. “It’s saying
something about the luck of the Irish.”
The twins burst into the room. Again.
“Wake up,” Mikey said.
Startled, Tony dropped the brass knob on the floor.
“Why are you already up and dressed?” Angey said.
“Who cares?” Mikey said. “We need to take the tarp down before that contractor gets here, so it’s all hands on deck.”
“But those are the same clothes he was wearing yesterday,” Angey said.
“I thought I told you guys to quit barging in here!” Tony said, signaling to Angelo and Solly he was no longer alone in the room.
“Not your brothers again!” Angelo sighed, rolling his eyes.
“What in the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph?”
Everyone but the twins looked over at the pawcorance. A redheaded kid now stood there with his hands on his hips.
“I take it you’re Finn McGinley?” Solly said.
The kid didn’t reply. His eyes rolled back in his head, his arms and legs went rigid. He toppled to the floor.
“That’s him, all right,” Solly said.
“Now what do we do?” Angelo said.
Tony and his family all stood around while Eddie Wong, a hip young guy in his twenties, scratched at the crumbling mortar between rows of bricks with his penknife. Over the side fence, Old Man Hagmann whistled softly and swept the pristine patio of his own backyard. It couldn’t be more obvious he was snooping. Meanwhile, Eddie pulled a loose brick away. He sniffed the space behind it. He shook his head and checked a few more boxes on his estimate sheet.
“Not good?” Michael said.
“There’s nothing to bolt a new deck to,” Eddie said. “Most of this back wall needs to be repointed.”
“What does that mean?” Julia asked, biting her thumbnail.
“All the mortar needs to be chiseled out—it’s crumbling away—then a fair number of bricks need to be replaced before I can remortar, and then I can rebuild the deck.” Eddie made a few last notes on his sheet, totaled it up, and handed it to Michael.
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