Excerpt from “The Restoration Man,” by John Michael Emory
I brought my hand up slowly, hesitated, then gave the door two soft raps.
After a few silent moments—that obligatory period, I suspected, when the host looks up and stares accusingly at the wall clock, sucks in a long, exacerbated breath, holds it while he performs a mental inventory of potential callers, then slowly exhales a string of obscenities—I heard movement beyond the door: a cough, then the yelp of a heavy chair being scooted across Linoleum.
More coughing, deep and croupy. Emphysema? I wondered. Not only was I calling after dark, but it seemed I might have been troubling the infirm.
Finally, smooth disengagements of at least four dead bolts. The door opened a full five inches, all that the safety chains would allow.
He peered suspiciously through the crack. “Can I help ya?”
A tall and wiry gentleman, wearing a cook’s red apron mottled with paints (only whitewash, I was to learn later). His face was weathered deeply, furrowed to depths that indicated mid-to-late sixties. Surprisingly, he still had a generous amount of hair, albeit frosty, cropped short all around.
His gray stubble reminded me just how late it was.
“Mister Garibaldi?” I asked.
“Last I checked,” he said, considering me through smudged bifocals.
“I have something needing repair.”
“I’m very sorry, but I only see appointments.” Then he started to shut the door.
“Please,” I said. “You’ve come highly recommended–”
