13 Hangmen (5 page)

“I'm guessing you're not Mildred Pickles?” Tony said. “The proprie
tress
.”

“Course not,” she said, then went back to her book.

Tony had every intention of asking her for directions, of
course. But that wasn't what came out of his mouth next. “You don't see many of Francis Hopkinson's quincuncial layouts these days,” he said, “outside of museums.” He was referring to the Stars and Stripes above her head.

That caught Colonial Maid Goth Chick's attention. “Most people think it's a Betsy Ross,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly scratchy and low, like Peppermint Patty's in a classic
Peanuts
cartoon.

“Betsy Ross arranged the stars in a circle,” Tony said, cribbing from Michael's lecture on flags during their last family trip to the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C. “But she was just copying someone else as a seamstress. We don't know who
created
her circular design. All we really know for sure is that Congress adopted Hopkinson's straight-across layout as the
official
American flag in 1777.”

“Dude, did you
want
something?” Colonial Maid Goth Chick said. But she was obviously impressed.

“Too bad the first star in the fourth row is missing,” Tony said. “If it's real, your flag would be worth a lot more money.”

“It's real. But it's not for sale,” she said. “Mildred's great-great-great-plus-grandmother Abigail plucked the star off when she was a girl. The ninth star represented the new state of Massachusetts—though, technically speaking, Massachusetts isn't
a state, it's a commonwealth. But no one knows why, or what she did with it.”

“So there
is
a real Mildred Pickles,” Tony said.

“Who said there wasn't?” she said.

“You got any Freedom Trail maps?” Tony said.

“Nope.”

“Can I ask you something else?” he said.

She rolled her eyes.

“Does Mildred Pickles make you dress like that to work here?”

“I don't work here,” she said. She didn't elaborate.

Okeydokey, then.
Tony turned and made for the door.

“Try the hardware,” she called after him. “They have all sorts of tourist crap.”

Tony was now drenched in sweat and totally out of breath. But he had finally found the right cul-de-sac of town houses. He'd been circling the neighborhood for a half hour—just like Julia had done with the car that morning—trying to get back to Hangmen Court. He'd given up on the Freedom Trail when the hardware store didn't sell maps either. The twins were still MIA. They had probably gorged their way from one end of that food court to the other. Meanwhile, he himself hadn't had a single
snack since his hummus sandwich at lunch. Strangely, he hadn't thought once about a Snickers bar. Though now, of course, he was wondering if there were any left in the secret-stash pocket of his backpack, up in his so-called room.

“You there, boy!”

A distinguished-looking gentleman beckoned Tony over to the manicured front lawn of No. 15, where he was pruning a trellis of roses with a pair of hedge clippers. It was the same old guy who had stared out the window when the DiMarcos had first arrived.

“Hi,” Tony said, extending his hand over the front gate. “I guess we're neighbors.”

The old guy just frowned. “I know who you are,” he said. “You're the one who owns Number Thirteen.”

“Well, no, not personally,” Tony said, pulling his hand back. “My dad inherited the house from his uncle, Angelo DiMarco. Did you know him?”

“
Half
uncle,” the man scowled. “Your father isn't a full-blood relation.”

“Sure he is,” Tony said. “Our name is DiMarco, just like Zio Angelo's.”

“That was Angelo's adopted name,” the man said. “His real name was Saporiti.”

“And you are?” Tony said, not sure where to go with
that
.

“The name is Benedict Hagmann. Double
n
at the end. I was Angelo's oldest and dearest childhood friend. So there's no point in trying to pull the wool over
my
eyes. I know a lot more than you think about the whole situation.”

“What situation?” Tony said. But he edged away from the gate, just in case Old Man Hagmann—double
n
at the end—suddenly got a little wild with those clippers.

“Angelo's bizarre decision to bequeath Number Thirteen to you,” Old Man Hagmann said, “a distant relative by marriage—a
child
he barely knew—as the result of an utterly unexpected and not entirely welcome visit from your father. A visit that took place, I might add, on the very morning of Angelo's sudden and quite mysterious death.”

“What are you saying?” Tony stammered.

“I've already said more than I should,” Old Man Hagmann sniffed. He lopped a couple of withered roses off the trellis. “But it's all highly suspicious.”

“I'm, um, late for dinner,” Tony said. Then he hightailed it up the front stoop to No. 13.

Crazy old fart.

Hopefully.

URPRISE
!”

The whole family leaped out of hiding. They were wearing corny birthday hats and blowing noisemakers. They had decorated the new—well, not
new
—dining room with crepe-paper streamers. They'd hung a banner from the mantel:
HAPPY 13TH, TONY
!

Michael ushered the totally stunned Tony over to the seat of honor at the head of the dining table, where a small stack of presents awaited on a plate. Everyone sat, and Michael started serving up pizza out of delivery boxes. “Pizzeria Regina,” he said. “The oldest in Boston, and it's just a few streets over. Zio Angelo bought after-school slices from there when
he
was a boy.”
He turned to Tony and asked, “Pepperoni with extra cheese or veggie-the-works?”

“Neither,” Julia said, before Tony could answer.

Right. Those twenty-five pounds that never got lost.
“Just pass me the salad bowl,” Tony sighed to Angey.

“That's not what I meant!” Julia said, flushing. “I meant: Not until you clear off what's already on your plate.”

Oh. The presents.

“Better get busy,” Michael said, squeezing Tony's shoulder. “Mine's on top.”

Tony unwrapped a small flat box. Two tickets for the Boston History Mystery Tour. Tony and his dad had seen the commercial for it a million times while watching their favorite cable program over a bowl of breakfast cereal. It was sort of like the Freedom Trail, except a trolley with a real detective guide drove you around to sites of the city's most famous unsolved mysteries: Whose bones were actually under the Mother Goose tombstone in the Granary Burying Ground? Did Paul Revere really ring a handbell to wake the countryside during his Midnight Ride? Did they catch the Boston Strangler—who murdered something like thirteen people—or did they blame it on some random and totally innocent guy?

“Awesome, Dad, thanks,” Tony said.

“You and me, tomorrow. Right after breakfast,” Michael said.

Tony could hardly categorize his dad's behavior as suspicious. He was just acting like goofy old Michael: wolfing a slice of veggie-the-works pizza while serving the twins pepperoni-extra-cheese; teasing Angey that he needed a haircut more than Mikey, even though the twins looked exactly the same and had gone to the barbershop together; kissing Julia's forehead and complimenting her on how fast she had whipped the dining room into festive shape.

“My present next,” Julia said. “It's the blue one.”

Tony opened it. A cell phone. He had sort of been expecting it—the twins had both gotten theirs when they had turned thirteen—but this one was a much cooler flip model. He reached over and gave Julia a big hug.

“Sorry about the pizza thing,” she whispered. “I didn't think.”

“That's way too much phone for him,” Mikey groused. “He doesn't even have anybody to call.”

Which was when, coincidentally, the wall phone started to ring.

“The account must still be in Zio Angelo's name,” Michael said, reaching up to answer it. He frowned. He covered the receiver with his hand. “Won't be a minute,” he said. He stretched the cord into the hallway and shut the door.

OK, so that's a little suspicious
.

“Open ours,” Angey said.

Tony unwrapped the last gift on his plate. A new Red Sox cap. A supercool one, in fact, with a flat hip-hop brim. It must have set them back a few allowances.

“We bought it at Quincy Market after we ditched you,” Mikey said. “So you wouldn't embarrass us by wearing that moldy old piece of crap Zio Angelo sent you.” (To be fair, neither he nor Angey knew yet that it had probably belonged to Ted Williams; Michael's plan had been to wait and have it appraised in Boston by a real Red Sox expert before he got everyone's hopes up.)

“Do you like it?” Angey asked. Strangely, it sounded like he really wanted to know.

First time for everything.

Michael stepped back into the room. He hung up the phone. “Ready for a slice?” he asked Tony.

Tony nodded. He promised himself he'd eat only one. Then he really would have salad. Michael handed him a slice of pepperoni. Tony took three huge bites. He set the rest down on his plate, slightly alarmed that it was already half gone. He frowned. He couldn't get that crazy old fart next door out of his mind. “Who called?” he said.

“Nobody,” Michael said. “Just the cable guy.”

“Why did you step out of the room if it was only the cable guy?” Tony said.

“Terrible echo,” Michael said. “Probably need to replace that phone.”

“Is it true you're only Zio Angelo's half nephew?” Tony blurted without really intending to.

“Who told you that?” Michael said.

“The next-door neighbor,” Tony said. “I ran into him just now. He said he was Zio Angelo's oldest friend.”

Michael sat. He grabbed the half-eaten slice of veggie-the-works off his plate. He didn't take a bite, though. “Mr. Hagmann's right,” he admitted, setting the slice back down. “Zio Angelo and my dad—your nonno Guido—
were
only half brothers.”

“So it's true Zio Angelo's real last name was Saporiti, not DiMarco?” Tony said.

“That's right,” Michael said. “Zio Angelo's own dad, Armando Saporiti, died when he was a little younger than you. His mom remarried your granddad, Antonio DiMarco.” Michael went on to explain that when Zio Angelo's dad, Armando Saporiti, died of emphysema, his mom, Isabella, started running a boardinghouse at 13 Hangmen Court to make ends meet. One of her boarders, a guy named Antonio DiMarco, asked her to marry him—which she did, on condition he adopt her son, Angelo. A few years later, Isabella and Antonio had a son of their own—Guido—who was Angelo's half brother and, eventually, Michael's dad.

(Basically, families were just as complicated then as they are today.)

“I don't get it,” Tony said. “Why did Zio Angelo leave
us
this place?”

“He never married,” Michael said. “He never had kids. We're his closest living relatives, except for Nonno Guido. But they were never very close.”

“Maybe he was gay,” Angey said.

“Like you,” Mikey said to Tony, cracking himself up.

“Maybe he was,” Michael said. “Either of you got a problem with that? Because I've got a big problem with homophobic jokes.”

They both turned red and shook their heads.

“Good,” Michael said. He admitted Zio Angelo's life was a bit of a mystery to everyone. He was never much of a talker, except about baseball. He left Boston as soon as he turned twenty-one. No one really knew where he went or what he did. He only came back to live at Hangmen Court after his mother died. By then, though, he was already sort of old. Which is why he sometimes hired Michael (who was in high school at the time) to do odd jobs around the place. Michael was about the only relative Zio Angelo ever kept in touch with—not even Nonno Guido—until Tony came along. For some reason, Zio Angelo took a real shine to him.