When Mrs. Parma returned to the kitchen a few moments later she was carrying a picture in a frame. Three boys in white robes, young boys, eight or nine, posed in front of a church, butcher boy cuts with bangs hanging down. The boy on the right was chubby, happy, with a smile that could melt butter. Joey? Was Joey ever that happy? He was leaning against the boy in the middle, a broad, sturdy lad with a fierce smile and dark eyes. To the left was a tall thin boy, standing apart from the other two.

“Such a face,” said Mrs. Parma, sitting back at the table, twisting her ring back on. “If only he could have stayed like that. But boys grow up and disappoint, every one. That is the way of it. Even you, Victor. Is your mother proud? Truly, in her heart? Joey Senior was just a boy himself when I first set eyes on him. Striding down the street in his uniform. Who could tell what was inside of him?”

“I wanted to again say how sorry I am for your loss.”

“I know you are. You took care of him that last time, when he told me he was falsely accused. My Joey, always a bad liar, but he couldn’t help himself. He was allergic to the truth. But things were turning around for him, so he said.”

“Is that what he said?”

“That night, before he went out. He said he had a plan would turn things around for him.”

“Did he tell you what the plan was all about?”

“No. Never. My Joey never told me a thing. In fact, the policeman who came, he asked the very same thing. The black man with the Irish name.”

“Scottish name,” I said. “McDeiss.”

“That’s it, yes. I made him some veal. A man his size, he eats a lot of veal. He asked about you as much as he asked about Joey. But I knew nothing about Joey’s business. I knew enough to know not to know. He was my son, Victor, my boy, and I loved him like he was still my little Joey, but I knew what he was. And for that they killed him dead?”