I Think She was Crying

Sitting on his red concrete-smear stoop, Mancuso whittled with a pearl-handle, nine-inch stiletto. White hair, complexion pale, with deep facial creases his face resembled a Hellenistic bust. Moss-covered stone planters flanked him, an aluminum door with an “M” in the grill, behind. His faded-shingle row house stood across from a brown-brick public housing apartment where…