McMahon lifted the latch on the gate. A hip-high fence of wrought iron bordered a garden of tulips and iris. “I wish I’d worn my uniform,” he said, in the sport jacket again. “I almost wish you had too,” Nim said. “I feel like we ought to be peddling The Watch Tower.” “Not in my uniform.” The doorbell chimed deep within the house. No one came. No sound from inside. Only the rumble of traffic on Greenwich Avenue. “The bells,” Nim said nervously, “the tintinnabulation of the bells, bells, bells.” “The Bells of St. Mary’s, that’s what Monsignor Casey thought we were doing. ‘There’s a tune to that, Joseph.’” He mimicked the old man’s accent. “You’re a snob,” Nim said. “Did you see La Plume de ma Tante? You know, the monks ringing the bells and getting carried away. Literally, all hung up on the ropes. Wild. I was in college then. I met my father in New York and he took me to see it. That was one of our few good times together.” The door opened without their having heard the man approach.
What do You think about Where The Dark Streets Go?
