“Shoot him from the window.”
I looked over at him. He peered up at the second story of the condemned three-decker where Webster allegedly lived. His deranged cherub’s face was serene, a look it usually got when it contemplated violence.
“We’re not shooting anyone. We’re not going to lay a glove on this guy.”
“He stole from you.”
“He’s harmless.”
“He stole from you.”
“He’s homeless.”
“Yeah, but he stole from you. You should set an example.”
“For who-all the other homeless guys lining up to steal my bag so I’ll chase them into a house where I’ll get the shit kicked out of me?”
“Them, yeah.” He took another swig of vodka. “And don’t give me this ‘He’s homeless’ shit.” He pointed the bottle at the condemned building across the street. “He’s living there, ain’t he?”
“He’s squatting.”
“Still a home,” Bubba said. “Can’t call someone homeless if they have, ya know, a fucking home.”
On some purely Bubba level, he had me there.
On the other side of Savin Hill Avenue, the door to Donovan’s bar opened. I nudged Bubba, pointed across the avenue as Webster crossed toward us.
“He’s homeless, but he’s in a bar. This guy has a better life than me. Probably has a fucking plasma and a Brazilian chick comes Tuesdays to clean and vacuum.”
Bubba threw open his door as Webster was about to pass the SUV. Webster paused and, in that second, forfeited any chance to escape. Bubba towered over him and I came around from the other side and Bubba said, “Remember him?”
Webster had adopted a position of half-cringe. When he recognized me, he closed his eyes to slits.
“I’m not going to hit you, man.”
“I will, though.” Bubba slapped Webster on the side of his head.
“Hey!” Webster said.
“I’ll do it again.”
“Webster,” I said, “where’s my bag?”
“What bag?”
I said, “Really?”
Webster looked at Bubba.
“My bag,” I said.
“I gave it back.”
“To who?”
“Max.”
“Who’s Max?”
“He’s Max. He’s the guy paid me to take your bag.”
“Red-haired dude?” I said.
“No. Dude’s got, like, black hair.”
Bubba slapped the side of Webster’s head again.
“What the hell you do that for?”
Bubba shrugged.
“He bores easily,” I said.
“I didn’t
“You didn’t what?” I pointed at my face.
“I didn’t know they were going to do that. They just told me to steal your bag.”
“Where’s the redheaded guy?” I said.
“I don’t know any redheaded guy.”
“Fine, where’s Max?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’d you take the bag? You wouldn’t take it back to the same house where I chased you.”
“No, man, I took it to a garage.”
“What kind of garage?”
“Huh? Like a place that fixes cars and shit. Has a few for sale out front.”
“Where?”
“On Dot Ave., just before Freeport, on the right.”
“I know that place,” Bubba said. “It’s, like, Castle Automotive or something.”
“Kestle. With a K,” Webster said.
Bubba slapped him upside the head again.
“Ow. Shit.”
“You take anything out of the bag?” I said. “Anything?”
“Nah, man. Max told me not to, so I didn’t.”
“But you looked in there.”
“Yeah. No.” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”
“There was a picture of a little girl in there.”
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“You put it back?”
“Yeah, man, I promise.”
“If it ain’t there when I find the bag, we’ll come back, Webster. And we won’t be all sweet and shit.”
“You call this sweet?” Webster said.
Bubba slapped the side of his head a fourth time.
“Sweet as it’ll ever get,” I said.
Kestle Cars & Repair sat across from a Burger King in the part of my neighborhood the locals call Ho Chi Minh Trail, a seven-block section of Dorchester Avenue, where waves of Vietnamese, Cambodian, and Laotian immigrants settled. There were six cars on the lot, all in dubious condition, all with MAKE AN OFFER painted in yellow on their windshields. The garage bay doors were closed and the lights were off, but we could hear loud chatter from the back. There was a dark green door to the left of the bay doors. I stepped aside and looked at Bubba.
“What?”
“It’s locked.”
“You can’t pick a lock no more?”
“Sure, but I don’t carry a kit on me. Cops frown on that shit.”
He grimaced and pulled a small leather case from his pocket. He unrolled it and selected a pick. “Is there anything you
“I cook a mean swordfish Provencal,” I said.
He gave that a mild shake of his head. “Last two times it was pretty dry.”
“I don’t make dry fish.”
He popped the lock. “Then a guy who looks like you does, and he served it last two times I was at your house.”
“Shit’s cold,” I said.
The back office smelled of trapped heat, burned motor oil, stale gusts of ganja and menthol cigarettes. We found four guys back there. Two I’d met before-the fat guy with the audible breathing and Tadeo, sporting a ridiculous bandage over his nose and forehead that made my own bandage look just a little less ridiculous. The fat
