Suppose Alfred Nota and his pal Homer's break-in at Collingswood Avenue was just a cover-up and their true mission was to plant a listening device. That made more sense. Dean had wondered what the two hoods expected to find in his house. One didn't keep maps of the location of witnesses they were hiding. He shifted his bike into high gear as he began a long downhill, building speed, anxious to get home. His mind followed suit, racing along, constructing a plan to prove his theory and more importantly, to address it.
The house was empty when Dean returned. Fred O'Connor was out, no doubt placating his sweethearts after his four-day hiatus to Scranton. While the detective had formulated a plan to confirm the listening device, he needed help to carry it off. He wanted to check the phone but was afraid he might tip his hand if he disturbed it, so he touched nothing.
He felt fidgety. Cece Baldwin didn't answer yet another call made from a corner payphone. Patience wasn't his strong suit and Mrs. Lincoln and jazz music somehow weren't sufficient evening entertainment. It was not a night for inactivity.
Perhaps it was just Dean's unsatisfied Thursday night urge for female companionship, but he found he wanted very badly to see Cynthia Byrne. According to the Sentinel, Parkside had won the divisional baseball title, thanks heavily to Randy, so she should be home from State College. On the spur of the moment he telephoned her. She answered on the first ring.
"I'm bored," he said without introduction. "Want to see a movie?"
"Do you always do things so impetuously?" she laughed. "My high school girl-boy-how-to book said I should be coy and turn down all last-minute dates."
"Is that the same girl-boy book that talks about patent leather shoes?" he asked.
"The very same. Do you know it's after 9:00?"
"The cinema out in the shopping mall has a 9:40 show. We can just make it."
It was a shared-popcorn, arm-around-her-shoulder, old-fashioned-love-story-movie kind of evening, topped off by a kiss goodnight-a real one, just one, maybe not passionate but on the lips and not a brother-sister smooch at all. And yes, Monica had been right: it was much, much better than a month of Thursdays with Hot-Sheets Rosewater the Sex Machine. And there was no sign of Jeffrey Byrne, in person, in conversation or in spirit.