“Ma’am,” he said to Winnie, “I’d like to see the boiler only if you say so. And whoever owns the building.” “It isn’t mine to say,” Winnie answered. “Ida decides.” “Ida?” “Ida Pediford. It’s her building. I’ll call her.”
She pulled a flip phone from her purse and turned away to talk. A moment later, she nodded once. “She says, ‘Come.’”
They left the market in pieces, the way careful people do. Winnie and Holly headed for the A train at Columbus Circle. At the top of the subway stairs, Holly stopped. She unwound the gray scarf, folded it in neat squares, and pressed it into Winnie’s hands.
“She says, ‘Thank you,’” Winnie told Miles, stepping halfway back to hand it over. “Her mama taught her to give back what she borrows. Same day.”
Miles took the scarf. It was still warm. “Tell her that’s a good rule,” he said. Holly gave a small nod without looking up. Then she took Winnie’s hand and went down the steps.
Lou hailed a cab. He had pulled a plain wool coat over the red suit, and the white beard hung from his pocket like a scarf of its own. They rode uptown without talking. Snow smeared the windows. Miles turned the scarf over in his hands and thought about 10 minutes at a chestnut cart. 30 years of them and how he had walked right past it every time.
The building stood on West 143rd Street in Harlem. Six stories of pre-war brick with a fire escape zigzagging down its face. In the vestibule waited a small woman of 78 in a gray cardigan, a ring of keys in her fist.
“Ida Pedifford,” she said. She did not offer a hand. She looked him over top to bottom like a man delivering a bill. “You have Frankie’s walk.” “I didn’t know he had one.” “Come on.”
