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A stepmother asks for help from her stepson.

Gotta look out for one another, like in the old days! You and me will make the evening news. We'll be on channel 6!"

"You tell 'em for me, Gracie, I don't mind if you say something, but me, I'm not going to say a word."

It would be all over the neighborhood in an hour or so, and probably Philadelphia in two hours. It was gratifying how fast the cops came. Our taxes in action. And still more cops came, until there were four cars in the street. I told this one and that one what I knew, until a rather beefy black detective, with hands the size of meat platters asked me to come to the station and give a formal statement. He spoke with a pure South Philly accent.

"Whatever will help, officer, but at this point I have to call my mother in law. She'll hear about this on the grapevine, and kill me for not telling her first.

"OK pal, do whacha gotta do. Get inta the car, an' talk to her on the way." Not a request.

It wasn't at all like the movies. Wouldn't you know, mother in law wasn't home, I just left a message saying I called with important news, and would call a bit later that evening. These cops talked like bad news journalists, obviously reading from a memorized script, careful to say exactly what procedure dictated they should say. We went into an office where they read me my rights. Yes, I waved my right to an attorney, and the questions started.

Nothing much I could tell them, I had been gone all week. Where was I that afternoon? Well, I had most of my receipts in my brief case in my car, some in my wallet, among others, I had a lunch receipt from a mom and pop restaurant in New York state, the French Azilum admission receipt, where I told them I spent about a hour and a half walking along the river, and the Seattle Coffee receipt at 4 PM, where I sat and checked my e mail for 15-20 minutes, mentioning the barista Zoe, and then drove about an hour to home, and made my call to the cops.

If you've never heard of French Azilum, you're in good company, they never heard of the place either, I had to spell it for them despite the fact that it was on the receipt.

Finally they photographed and fingerprinted me and let me go, telling me my apartment was a crime scene, so I couldn't go in. And oh, by the way, Wifey had been assaulted, not in mortal danger, and was at Jefferson Hospital! I was really delighted that she was sort of OK, really I was. Like I said, the penalty in civilized countries for what she'd been doing is divorce, not death.

I bitched to them that they had kept me there when the wife was in real trouble and needed me, and got a ride back to the house with some patrol woman to pick up my car. The excitement was nearly over, only one police car; the other three had been replaced by a white police van. The police woman told me that I could probably go in the house by 10 or 11PM. I told her I had a spare key, so would they lock up when they were done and drop it in the mail slot?

I headed over to the hospital, returning the numerous calls that her mother, sister and some aunts left on my cell. Pandemonium among the in laws, I must say. I'm surprised I didn't hear them pealing rubber over on Pearl Street where they all live, as they rushed to the hospital. I did call my mom at that point to give her such details as I could, but as she lives 500 miles away, she could be cool and objective. Plus I really didn't know anything about her condition, other than it wasn't fatal. Well, I thought I probably didn't kill the Punter either, as Wifey couldn't have moved the body far, and as the police had no idea who he was. I felt a little better.

When I got to the waiting room I held the in laws off until I checked in with the desk.

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