Chapter 35 - THE MIDWINTER THAW
February brought a sudden, violent thaw to the Pennsylvania mountains. Sheets of ice slid from the tin roofs of Altoona with thunderous crashes, and the muddy slush in the streets turned into rushing miniature rivers along the curbs.
Inside Pendelton Hardware, business was brisk. Farmers were coming in early to buy spring fencing wire and seed packets. Marco moved between the aisles with his usual silent efficiency, his wire-rimmed spectacles catching the fluorescent glare overhead.
Sophie was sitting on a low wooden stool behind the counter, cutting paper dolls out of an old Sears catalog with a pair of blunt-tipped safety scissors. Clara was helping a customer select a set of cabinet hinges near the back shelves.
The shop door chimed, and a tall man in a heavy canvas work jacket stepped inside, stamping the melting snow from his heavy work boots. He pulled down the brim of a gray woolen cap, hiding most of his face in the shadow of the doorway.
Marco froze for a fraction of a second—just long enough for the nib of his pen to leave a tiny black blot on the invoice pad. He didn't look up immediately. He finished folding a receipt, handed it to the customer, and watched the man walk toward the counter.
The stranger didn't speak. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, wet copper coin from seventy-eight, and laid it flat on the scarred oak counter between them.
Marco looked down at the coin, then raised his eyes to meet the stranger's gaze.
It wasn't Dominic. It was Frankie—older by ten years, his face scarred by a jagged white line across his left cheek from the docks, his eyes carrying the heavy, haunted look of a man who had spent too many winters running from ghosts in South Philadelphia.
"The North End is gone, Mr. Falcone," Frankie whispered, his voice trembling slightly as he leaned against the counter. "The federal receivers auctioned off the warehouses last week. Arthur’s boy tried to open the old union hall, but the feds seized the books within forty-eight hours."
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Marco didn't change expression. He picked up the copper coin, slipped it into his apron pocket, and reached for his ledger.
"The North End was demolished thirty years ago, Francis," Marco said quietly, his voice as calm as a frozen pond. "You’re just now noticing the dust."
