Arrow Parkway
Paulie had a black Dodge Diplomat. It reminded Jerk of the old Ilium PD cruisers, but with only a six-cylinder it didn’t have the throaty growl of those extinct beasts. He guided it up Prospect Street before taking a right onto the tree-lined Arrow Parkway, heading toward Sacred Heart.
“Doyle, you’re fogging up the windows,” Paulie said, adjusting the vents and defroster.
“The Three Musketeers, Kid! Think about it. You as Porthos, Carmen as Athos, and, of course, myself as Aramis.” Doyle continued, oblivious in the back seat with Kid.
“I can’t,” Kid said, laughing.
“But why? I already have the rapiers!” Doyle flourished his right hand, miming the draw of a sword.
“Can I at least see a show there first?”
Paulie turned up the vent fan on high, drowning out Doyle’s next plea.
“It feels weird, representing the Society for our parents,” Paulie said. “Especially a memorial for Mayor Hayden.”
“I’m already a member,” Jerk said. He peered up through the windshield. “I think it’s snowing.”
“Oh yeah, they made you the Scribe or something, right?” Paulie cracked the window.
“Definitely snowing.” Fat snowflakes were falling on the windshield now. “‘The Page.’ Errand boy. I keep the Ledger too.”
Doyle’s head emerged between them. “Ohhh! Are you two talking about Skull and Crossbows?”
“The Vanderkill Society isn’t like that, Doyle.” Jerk crossed his arms and looked out the passenger window.
“The suicide hotline people?” Kid said, recovering from Doyle abandoning his pleas mid-breath. “‘Don’t Drown. Call,’” Kid said, quoting the posters. “I thought the city ran that.”
“Hayden became our face when he became Mayor.” Jerk turned over his right shoulder to talk to Kid, away from Doyle. “We couldn’t have set up the hotline without him.”
“I hear they do cult rituals above The News,” Doyle whispered to Kid behind his hand, conspiratorially.
“You mean The Van Renwyck Room? I’ve been in there.” Kid scratched their cheek.
Doyle gaped.
“Doyle, it’s their family smoking lounge. I’ve told you that before.” Paulie’d been in it, too.
They came to a stop. A long line of cars had formed in the right lane of Arrow Parkway waiting to turn into the grassy field that served as the overflow lot for Sacred Heart. It was always needed for memorials when the Witch took someone. This was the eleventh since Stephen, by Jerk’s count.
The fat flakes were collecting on the windshield. Doyle leaned back and looked out his window.
Kid wiped away some fog with a fingertip. “They saved Monroe when she called. How do I join?”
The car got quiet.
“It’s open to families who’ve lost someone to the Witch,” Jerk explained. “Ancestor in my case. Uncle in Paulie’s.”
“What about Late?” Kid asked.
“Christ. Poor Late,” Paulie said. He shook his head. “No. He refuses.”
“The line of cars isn’t moving.” Jerk rolled down the window and craned his neck. He couldn’t see anything. “Late doesn’t want to witness readings of The Black Ledger.”
Doyle leaned forward and hissed. “See! Skull and Crossbows!”
The line moved one car up.
Jerk sniffed. “Paulie, you’ve got a pinhole in your heater core.”
Doyle huffed.
“Shit,” Paulie swore. “Sorry, Doyle. How bad?”
Jerk sniffed again. “Not bad, but turn the heat off on the defroster. We have to dry out the inside.” He held his hand out the window, catching snowflakes. “If we can.”
Doyle leaned forward and kissed Paulie on the cheek. “It’s OK, Papa.”
Paulie blushed as he adjusted the windows. He peered ahead. “I think they’re waving cars past the lot.”
The line began crawling forward.