THE FOURTH WATCH by Edwin Attella

hill to the right of the southbound lane is dense with the
"Three Deckers" that have, for generations, housed the descendants
of the original immigrants. Over the years other ethnic groups have
moved into the area, and it has really become a melting pot of
southern European cultures. But it is now and will always be known
as the "Italian Section" of Worcester.
    There must be 30 Italian restaurants on
Shrewsbury Street, and in my life I've eaten in all of them. They
range from the hole in the wall lunch counters, to the high-end
joints that do most of their business at night. The Wonder Bar is a
middle of the road place that is open day and night and serves
excellent food in abundance at reasonable prices. Jack and I have
been patrons for years, and the old Italian woman who waits the
tables hasn't changed in looks or personality. She calls everyone
'Honey' and hovers around to make sure that everything is just
right. Neither the prices nor the menu had changed in a decade.
Jack and I usually eat to near bursting and get out of their for
less than twenty bucks, including the healthy tip that we always
leave.
    We scanned the menu in silence, although we
could both recite it. I ordered
    sausage and peppers over linguini and Jack had
the veal with ziti. We ordered an antipasto to split, which comes
in a bowl not on a plate, and two Diet Cokes. She brought the
Cokes, two glasses with ice in them, the antipasto and a hamper
full of fresh bread before she yelled the rest of our order back
into the kitchen.
    "So what was all that 'joking' about your
soul?" Jack asked shoveling the antipasto onto our plates. "A
troubled soul is no laughing matter."
    I took a short loaf out of the basket and tore
a piece off the end. I poured some olive oil on a saucer, added
some red pepper and Romano cheese to it, and dipped the bread into
it. "Nothing, really," I said and wrapped the bread around a
forkful of antipasto. "I Just have a new case that's a
little...weird."
    He waited while I chewed.
    "I had this woman come into my office the
other day, and she was all distraught, her father died recently,
drowned actually in the family pool."
    Jack ate his antipasto, nodding as he
listened.
    "The old man was a prominent local business
man, leading kind of a big life. The daughter worshiped him I
think. Anyway, she comes in and tells me that he was murdered.
Doesn't know why or how or who did it of course, just knows that
there is no way it happened like the police say it did."
    I jabbed my fork into a pile of salami, hot
ham, hot peppers, onions, lettuce and Provolone cheese, wrapped a
piece of bread around it and bit off half.
    "I hope your not attempting to conceal the
fact that the alleged victim in this thing is Red Whorley, because
if you are it’s not going to work."
    I stopped chewing and smiled at
him.
    "Common' Kato, it was in all the papers for
weeks."
    He was right of course. ''I'm not trying to
conceal anything, just telling you a story."
    "Sorry, go ahead."
    The waitress banged our plates down on the
table. They were the size of hub caps and still Jack's veal was
hanging over the sides. We both used the shakers of Romano, oregano
and red pepper liberally.
    "Well the thing is, the woman...his daughter
Carolyn...ended up giving me a sizable retainer, twenty-five grand
in fact, to look into this thing for her."
    Jack is my sounding board. He is
tough and fair, even-tempered and very smart. He will not tell me
what I want to hear, he will always tell me what he thinks is
right. I trust his moral compass far better than I trust my own.
Lunch with Jack, down through the years, has proved to be among my
best investigative tools. He will always advise me wisely, not
necessarily about how to proceed on a case, although he won't
hesitate to put his two cents in there either, but in talking with
him I always find the focus. By that I mean the heart of a case. He loves listening
about cases. He gets wrapped up in the drama, the underlying
sadness in