Lindsey’s eyebrows rose. This was the kind of work he enjoyed. When you got away from headquarters and went out and talked to people you could often learn more in a few days than you could by pushing paper for a month. “What do you think, Uncle Aldo? Is it all right if I call you that?”
“You’re Gina’s friend,” Uncle Aldo nodded, “you have my permission.”
Somehow, Lindsey realized, it was a good thing that he had asked and not just used the name. “When was that, Uncle Aldo? You remember what year that was?” he queried
“I started St. Cecelia’s 1932.” the old man said. “I was six years old. The Glorias, they was three-four years ahead of me.” He smiled at the recollection, a faraway look in his faded gray eyes. “Those girls, I remember those big girls, eh? They always wore hair ribbons. Al
