"How come you park in a driveway and drive on a parkway?" Bubba yawned into his fist, looked out the window.

"I have no idea."

"You said that the last time I asked you."

"And?"

"And I just wish someone would give me a good answer. It p.i.s.ses me off."

We left the main road and followed Cody Falk into a smoke-brown neighborhood of tall oaks and chocolate Tudors, the fallen sun having left a haze of deep bronze in its wake that gave the late winter streets an autumn glow, an air of rarefied ease, inherited wealth, stained-gla.s.s private libraries full of dark teak and delicate tapestries.

"Glad we took the Porsche," Bubba said.

"You don't think the Crown Vic would have fit in?"

My Porsche is a '63 Roadster. I bought the sh.e.l.l and little else ten years ago and spent the next five purchasing parts and restoring it. I don't love it, per se, but I have to admit that when I'm behind the wheel, I do feel like the coolest guy in Boston. Maybe the world. Angie used to say that's because I still have a lot of growing up to do. Angie was probably right, but then, until very recently, she drove a station wagon.

Cody Falk pulled into a small driveway beside a large stucco colonial and I cut my headlights and pulled in behind him as the garage door rolled up with a whir. Even with his windows closed, I could hear the ba.s.s thumping from his car speakers, and we rolled right up the driveway behind him without his hearing a thing. I cut the engine just before we would have followed him into the garage. He got out of the Audi and we left the Porsche as the garage door began to close. He popped his trunk, and Bubba and I stepped under the door and in there with him.

He jumped back when he saw me, and shoved his hands out in front of him as if warding off a horde. Then his eyes began to narrow. I'm not a particularly big guy and Cody looked fit and tall and well muscled. His fear of a stranger in his garage was already giving way to calculation as he sized me up, saw I had no weapon.

Then Bubba shut the trunk that had blocked him from Cody's view, and Cody gasped. Bubba has that effect on people. He has the face of a deranged two-year-old-as if the features softened and stopped maturing around the same time his brain and conscience did-and it sits atop a body that reminds me of a steel boxcar with limbs.

"Who the h.e.l.l-"

Bubba had taken Cody's tennis racket from his bag, and he twirled it lightly in his hand. "How come you park in driveways, but drive on parkways?" he asked Cody.

I looked at Bubba and rolled my eyes.

"What? How the f.u.c.k do I know?"

Bubba shrugged. Then he smashed the tennis racket down onto the Audi's trunk, drove a gouge in the center that was about nine inches long.

"Cody," I said as the garage door slammed closed behind me, "you don't say a word unless I ask you a direct question. We clear?"

He stared at me.

"That was a direct question, Cody."

"Uh, yeah, we're clear." Cody glanced at Bubba, seemed to shrink into himself.

Bubba removed the tennis racket cover and dropped it on the floor.

"Please don't hit the car again," Cody said.

Bubba held up a comforting hand. He nodded. Then he sliced a pretty fluid backhand through the air and connected with the Audi's rear window. The gla.s.s made a loud popping noise before it dropped all over Cody's backseat.

"Jesus!"

"What did I say about talking, Cody?"

"But he just smashed my-"

Bubba flung the tennis racket like a tomahawk and it hit Cody Falk in the center of the forehead, knocked him back into the garage wall. He crumpled to the floor and blood streamed from the gash over his right eyebrow and he looked like he was going to cry.

I picked him up by his hair and slammed his back into the driver's door.

"What do you do for a living, Cody?"

"I...What?"

"What do you do?"

"I'm a restaurateur."

"A what?" Bubba said.

I looked back over my shoulder at him. "He owns restaurants."

"Oh."

"Which ones?" I asked Cody.

"The Boatyard in Nahant. I own the Flagstaff downtown, and part of Tremont Street Grill, the Fours in Brookline. I...I-"

"Sshh," I said. "Anyone in the house?"

"What?" He looked around wildly. "No. No. I'm single."

I pulled Cody to his feet. "Cody, you like to hara.s.s women. Maybe even rape them sometimes, knock them around when they don't play ball?"

Cody's eyes darkened as a thick drop of blood began its descent down the bridge of his nose. "No, I don't. Who-"

I backhanded the wound on his forehead and he yelped.

"Quiet, Cody. Quiet. If you ever bother a woman again-any woman-we'll burn down your restaurants and put you in a wheelchair for life. Do you understand?"

Something about women brought out the stupid in Cody. Maybe it was the telling him he couldn't have them in the manner he'd come to enjoy. Whatever the case, he shook his head. He tightened his jaw. A predatory amus.e.m.e.nt crept into his eyes as if he believed he'd found my Achilles' heel: a concern for the "weaker" s.e.x.

Cody said, "Well. Yes, well. I don't think I can do that."

I stepped aside as Bubba came around the car, pulled a .22 from his trench coat, screwed on the silencer, pointed it at the center of Cody Falk's face and pulled the trigger.

The hammer dropped on an empty chamber, but Cody didn't seem to realize that at first. He closed his eyes and screamed, "No!" and fell on his a.s.s.

We stood over him as he opened his eyes. He touched his nose with his fingers, surprised to realize it was still there.

"What happened?" I asked Bubba.