mean Webster?” the dishwasher at a soup kitchen in Fields Corner said.
“The little black kid from ’90s TV?” Bubba said. “Why would we be looking for him?”
“Nah, man, I most definitely do not mean the little black kid from ’90s TV. We in the oh-tens now, or ain’t you heard?” The dishwasher scowled. “Webster’s a white boy, on the small side, got a beard.”
I said, “That’s the Webster we’re looking for.”
“Don’t know if it’s his first name or last, but he cribbed up at a place on Sydney round—”
“No, he blew out of there today.”
Another scowl. For a dishwasher, he was kind of prickly. “Place on Sydney up by Savin Hill Ave.?”
“No, I was thinking of the other end, the place by Crescent.”
“You ain’t thinking then. You ain’t know shit. Clear? So just shush it, boy.”
“Yeah,” Bubba said, “just shush it, boy.”
I wasn’t close enough to kick him, so I shut up.
“Yeah, the place he staying is at the end of Sydney. Where it meet Bay Street? There. Second floor, yellow house, got one of them AC units in the window stopped working during Reagan, look like it gonna fall out on someone’s head.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Little black kid from ’90s TV,” he said to Bubba. “Man, if I wasn’t fifty-nine and a half years old? I’d profoundly whoop your ass over that shit.”
Chapter Seven
W here Sydney Street crosses Savin Hill Avenue, it becomes Bay Street and sits on top of a subway tunnel. About every five minutes, the whole block shudders as a train rumbles beneath it. Bubba and I had sat through five of these shudders so far, which meant we’d been sitting in Bubba’s Escalade for nearly half an hour.
Bubba does not do sitting still very well. It reminds him too much of group homes and orphanages and prisons, places he’s called home for roughly half his time on earth. He’d already fiddled with the GPS—punching in random addresses in random cities to see if Amarillo, Texas, had a Groin Street or Toronto sent tourists traipsing along Rogowski Avenue. When he exhausted the entertainment value of searching for nonexistent streets in cities he never intended to visit, he played with the satellite radio, rarely landing on a station for more than thirty seconds before he’d let loose a half-sigh, half-snort and change the channel. After a while, he dug a bottle of Polish potato vodka out from under the seat and took a swig.
He offered me the bottle. I declined. He shrugged and took another pull. “Let’s just kick the door in.”
“We don’t even know if he’s in there.”
“Let’s just do it anyway.”
“And if he comes home while we’re in there, sees his door kicked down and takes off running, what do we do then?”
“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
“The little black kid from ’90s TV?” Bubba said. “Why would we be looking for him?”
“Nah, man, I most definitely do not mean the little black kid from ’90s TV. We in the oh-tens now, or ain’t you heard?” The dishwasher scowled. “Webster’s a white boy, on the small side, got a beard.”
I said, “That’s the Webster we’re looking for.”
“Don’t know if it’s his first name or last, but he cribbed up at a place on Sydney round—”
“No, he blew out of there today.”
Another scowl. For a dishwasher, he was kind of prickly. “Place on Sydney up by Savin Hill Ave.?”
“No, I was thinking of the other end, the place by Crescent.”
“You ain’t thinking then. You ain’t know shit. Clear? So just shush it, boy.”
“Yeah,” Bubba said, “just shush it, boy.”
I wasn’t close enough to kick him, so I shut up.
“Yeah, the place he staying is at the end of Sydney. Where it meet Bay Street? There. Second floor, yellow house, got one of them AC units in the window stopped working during Reagan, look like it gonna fall out on someone’s head.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Little black kid from ’90s TV,” he said to Bubba. “Man, if I wasn’t fifty-nine and a half years old? I’d profoundly whoop your ass over that shit.”
Chapter Seven
W here Sydney Street crosses Savin Hill Avenue, it becomes Bay Street and sits on top of a subway tunnel. About every five minutes, the whole block shudders as a train rumbles beneath it. Bubba and I had sat through five of these shudders so far, which meant we’d been sitting in Bubba’s Escalade for nearly half an hour.
Bubba does not do sitting still very well. It reminds him too much of group homes and orphanages and prisons, places he’s called home for roughly half his time on earth. He’d already fiddled with the GPS—punching in random addresses in random cities to see if Amarillo, Texas, had a Groin Street or Toronto sent tourists traipsing along Rogowski Avenue. When he exhausted the entertainment value of searching for nonexistent streets in cities he never intended to visit, he played with the satellite radio, rarely landing on a station for more than thirty seconds before he’d let loose a half-sigh, half-snort and change the channel. After a while, he dug a bottle of Polish potato vodka out from under the seat and took a swig.
He offered me the bottle. I declined. He shrugged and took another pull. “Let’s just kick the door in.”
“We don’t even know if he’s in there.”
“Let’s just do it anyway.”
“And if he comes home while we’re in there, sees his door kicked down and takes off running, what do we do then?”
“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
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