“I said back away, okay?”

I pull a business card out of my shirt pocket and hand it to him. “I own the van, okay? It was a gasoline bomb stuck to the gas tank. Attempted murder. Please ask your investigator to call me later this morning.”

He looks at the card but is unable to put together a response.

I return to the car and sit in silence for a few minutes. “Want some chicken?” I finally ask.

“No. Not much of an appetite now.”

“I think I’d like some coffee. You?”

“Sure.”

I get out of the car again and walk into the restaurant. There are no customers, the place is dead, and the obvious question is, why does a chicken place stay open twenty-four seven? But that’s a question for someone else. A black girl with steel in both nostrils is loitering by the cash register. “Two coffees please,” I say. “No cream.”

This pisses her off but she starts moving anyway. “Two forty,” she says as she grabs a pot, one that probably hasn’t been touched in hours. As she sets the two cups on the counter, I say, “That van out there belongs to me.”

“Well, I guess you need a new van,” she retorts with a sassy smile. How clever.

“Looks like it. Did you see it blow up?”

“Naw, didn’t see it, but I heard it.”

“And I’m betting that you or one of your co-workers ran outside with a cell phone and caught it all on video, right?”

She’s nodding smugly. Yes.

“Did you give it to the police?”

A grin. “Naw, don’t do nothing to help no PO-lice.”

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you’ll e-mail me the video, and I won’t tell a soul.”

She whips her phone out of her jeans pocket and says, “Gimme your address and the cash.”

We do the deal. On the way out I ask, “Any surveillance cameras outside?”

“Naw. PO-lice already asked about that. Man who owns this place is too cheap.”

In the car, Partner and I stare at my cell phone and watch the video, which is nothing more than the fireball he’s already described. At least two fire trucks answered the call and it took a while to douse the flames. The video runs for fourteen minutes and, while entertaining because it is my van, it reveals nothing useful. When the screen goes blank Partner asks, “Okay, who did it?”

I reply, “I’m sure it’s Link. We punched out two of his thugs on Monday. Tit for tat. We’re playing hardball now.”

“You think Link’s in the country?”

“I doubt it. That would be too risky. I’ll bet he’s close by, though, Mexico or the Caribbean, someplace just out of reach but someplace that’s easy to get to and from.”

I start the engine and we drive away. I’m impressed with how much Partner has talked tonight. The excitement of getting blown up has loosened his tongue. I can tell he’s in pain but he would never admit it.

“You got a plan?” he asks.

“Yes. I want you to find Miguel Zapate, Tadeo’s brother. Now that the promising MMA career is over, I’m sure Miguel is devoting all his time to peddling drugs. I want you to explain to Miguel that I need some protection; that I’m representing his little brother on a murder rap for free, completely pro bono because I love the kid and he can’t afford to pay me; and that I’m getting squeezed by some thugs who work for Link Scanlon. Fango is one, though I’ve never known his real name.”

“They call him Tubby. Tubby Fango, but his real name is Danny.”

“Impressive. Who’s the other one, the one you plunked with your little baton?”

“Goes by Razor, Razor Robilio, real name is Arthur.”

“Tubby and Razor,” I say, shaking my head. “When did you take care of this bit of research?”

“After the altercation on Monday, I decided to snoop a little. Wasn’t that hard, really.”

“Nice work. So give the names to Miguel and tell him that he needs to contact these boys and tell them to back off. Miguel and his boys are running coke, something Link had control of thirty years ago. It’s unlikely Tubby and Razor have crossed paths with Miguel, but you never know. There are always strange connections down in the sewers. Please make it clear to Miguel that I don’t want anyone hurt; just some intimidation. Got it?”

“Got it, Boss.”

We’re in the projects. The streets are dark and empty. However, if I stepped out of my car at this moment and showed my white face, I would immediately attract some unpleasant types. I made that mistake once before, but, thankfully, I had Partner with me. I pull to the curb outside his building and say, “I assume Miss Luella is waiting.”

He nods and says, “I called her, told her it was just a scratch. She’ll be all right.”

“You want me to come in?”

“No, Boss. It’s pushing three. Go get some sleep.”

“Call me if you need anything.”

“You got it, Boss. Are we shopping for a new van tomorrow?”

“Not yet. I have to deal with the cops and my insurance company.”

“I need some wheels. Mind if I start looking online?”

“Go right ahead. And take care.”

“You got it, Boss.”

10.

Since I cannot, at this moment, stand the thought of being in her presence, and she certainly prefers to avoid looking at me, Judith and I decide to hash things out over the phone. We begin somewhat pleasantly with the latest update on our son. He’s doing well, no damage, no desire to really talk about last weekend. With that out of the way, we get down to business.

Judith has decided that she does not want to pursue an FBI investigation into Roy Kemp and the kidnapping. She has her reasons and they are solid. Life is good. Starcher is fine. If Kemp and company are desperate enough to snatch a kid in return for information, then who knows what else they might do. Let’s leave them alone. Besides, proving Kemp was involved seems impossible. Can we really trust the FBI to go after a high-ranking law enforcement official? Plus, her trial calendar is packed. She doesn’t want the distraction. Why should we complicate our already stressful lives?

Judith is a fighter, a tough gal who backs down from nothing. She’s also a conniving tactician who avoids the dangers of unintended consequences. If we push an investigation into Kemp, we have no idea what might happen next. And since we’re dealing with a tough guy who’s not thinking clearly, it’s smart to assume retaliation is likely.

To her surprise, I do not argue. We reach an agreement, a rare occurrence in our relationship.

11.

Our mayor is a three-term guy with the imposing name of L. Woodrow Sullivan III. To the public and the voters, he’s simply Woody, a smiling, backslapping, friendly sort who’ll promise anything for a vote. In private, though, he’s an abrasive, sour prick who drinks too much and is fed up with his job. He can’t walk away, though, because he has no place to go. He’s up for reelection next year and it appears as though he has no friends. Right now his approval rating is around 15 percent, low enough to force any proud politician to quit in disgrace, but Woody’s fought back before. He’d rather do anything than suffer through the meeting we’re about to have.

The third man in the room is the city attorney, Moss Korgan, a classmate of mine in law school. We despised each other back then and things have not improved. He edited the law review and was headed for a gilded career in a fancy corporate law firm, one that imploded and left him scrambling for lesser work.

Woody and Moss. Sounds like an ad for hunting gear.