Part 85 (1/2)

screenprinting T-s.h.i.+rts. But just what he would do was still a cloudy

mystery.

It was a little scary taking off the cap and gown. Like shedding his

youth. He held them both in his hands as he scanned his room. It was

cluttered with clothes, mementos, record alb.u.ms, and since his mother

had long since given up on cleaning it herself, his cache of Playboys.

There were the letters he'd earned in track and baseball. The letters,

he remembered, that had convinced Rose Anne Markowitz to climb into the

backseat of his secondhand Pinto and do it to the tune of Joe c.o.c.ker's

Feeling Alght.

He'd been blessed with a tough athletic body, long legs, and quick

reflexes. Like his father, his mother was fond of saying. He supposed

in some way he took after the old man, though their relations.h.i.+p had had

its share of battles. Over hair length, wardrobe, politics, curfews.

Captain Kesselring was a stickler.

Came from being a cop, Michael supposed. He remembered being careless

enough once to bring a single joint into the house. He'd been grounded

for a month. And a few lousy speeding tickets had cost him just as

dearly.

The law was the law, old Lou was fond of saying, Michael thought now.

Thank G.o.d he himself had no intention of being a cop.

He took the ta.s.sel from the cap before tossing it and the gown onto his

unmade bed. Maybe it was sentimental to keep it, but n.o.body had to

know. He routed through his dresser drawers for the old cigar box that

held some of his most valued possessions. The love letter Lori Spiker

had written him in his junior year-before she'd dumped him