Moonlight Mile Part 7

"Still a home," Bubba said. "Can't call someone homeless if they have, ya know, a f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.king plasma and a Brazilian chick comes Tuesdays to clean and vacuum."

Bubba threw open his door as Webster was about to pa.s.s 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 h.e.l.l you do that for?"

Bubba shrugged.

"He bores easily," I said.

"I didn't do do nothing." nothing."

"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 s.h.i.t. 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. s.h.i.t."

"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 s.h.i.t."

"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 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. 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 s.h.i.t."

He grimaced and pulled a small leather case from his pocket. He unrolled it and selected a pick. "Is there anything you can do can do anymore?" anymore?"

"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."

"s.h.i.t'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 guy stood to the far left side of the room. Tadeo stood directly in front of us, half his body behind a metal desk the color of eggsh.e.l.l. A third guy, in a mechanic's overalls, was pa.s.sing a joint when we walked in. He wasn't yet drinking age and fear seized his face when Bubba entered behind me; unless the fear made him stupid b.a.l.l.sy (it happens), he'd be the least of our problems.

The fourth guy sat slightly to our right, behind the desk. He had dark hair. His skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, fresh droplets popping through the pores as we watched. He was about thirty-going-on-a-coronary, and you could smell the crank singeing his veins from Newfoundland. His left knee jackhammered under the desk, his right hand patted a steady bongo beat on the top. My laptop sat in front of him. He stared at us with bright eyes pinned to the rear wall of his skull. "This one of the guys?"

The fat guy pointed at me. "That's the one f.u.c.ked up Tadeo's face."

Tadeo said to me, "The re-up's coming on that s.h.i.t, homes. Believe it," but there was a hollow catch in his voice that came from trying not to look at Bubba.

"I'm Max." The tweeker behind my laptop gave me a broad smile. He sucked oxygen into his nostrils and gave me a wink. "I'm the IT guy up in this s.h.i.t. Nice laptop."

I nodded at the table. "My laptop."

"Huh?" He look wildly confused. "This is my laptop."

"Funny. Looks a lot like mine."

"That's called a model." His eyes popped against their sockets. "If they all looked different, they'd be kind of hard to manufacture, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Tadeo said, "you f.u.c.king r.e.t.a.r.ded and s.h.i.t?"

I said, "I'm just a girl standing before a boy looking for his laptop."

"I heard you'd got your head in the right place about this," Max said. "We were never supposed to see you again. No harm, no foul. You want to bring us into your life, you don't f.u.c.king f.u.c.king understand how bad that will be." He closed my laptop and placed it in the drawer to his right. understand how bad that will be." He closed my laptop and placed it in the drawer to his right.

"Look," I said, "I can't afford a replacement."

He rocked forward into the desk, his whole endoskeleton surging against his skin. "Call a f.u.c.king insurance company."

"It's not insured."

"This f.u.c.king guy, bro," he said to Bubba, then checked the position of his men. He looked back at me. "You're out of this. Just let it go and you'll stay out of it. Run back to your little life."

"I'm going. I just want to take my laptop back with me. And the picture of my daughter that was in my bag. Bag's yours."

Tadeo moved all the way out from behind the desk. The fat guy stayed against the wall, breathing heavy. The kid mechanic was breathing heavy, too, and blinking like crazy.

"I know the bag's mine." Max got to his feet. "I know this office is mine, that ceiling, the O-ring in your a.s.s, if I feel like it."

"Uh, okay," I said. "Hey, who hired you, by the way?"

"Man, you with the questions questions." He flung his hands at me like he was auditioning for a Lil Weezy video and then scratched the back of his head furiously. "You don't make demands. You go the f.u.c.k home." He shooed me with his fingers. "Bro, I say one word and you're f.u.c.king-"

Bubba's shot spun him in place. Max let out a sharp shout and fell back into his chair. The chair slammed off the wall and dumped Max to the floor. He lay there for a bit with blood pouring from the vicinity of his waistline.

"What's with all this 'bro' s.h.i.t lately?" Bubba lowered his gun. It was his new favorite, a Steyr 9mm. Austrian. Hideous-looking.

"Ho, s.h.i.t!" Tadeo said. "Holy f.u.c.king s.h.i.t."

Bubba pointed the Steyr at Tadeo and then the fat guy. Tadeo put his hands on his head. The fat guy did too. They both stood there shaking and awaiting further instruction.

Bubba didn't even bother with the kid. He'd dropped to his knees and lowered his head to the floor and kept whispering, "Please, please."

"You f.u.c.king shoot the guy?" I said. "A bit harsh, no?"

"Don't bring me out on this s.h.i.t if you're going to leave your pair at home." Bubba frowned. "G.o.dd.a.m.n embarra.s.sing what a civilian you've become, man."

I got a closer look at Max as a burst of air left his mouth. He ground his forehead into the cement floor and pounded a fist on it.

"He's f.u.c.ked up," I said.

"I barely hit him."

"You blew one of his hips off."

Bubba said, "He's got two."