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Armando Casagrande said, “Whoa, he should use his own stuff.”
Karen Brousse laughed, pulled up to the sidewalk, and asked Banks what the deal was.
“Guy lifted all my pipes and my sweet-treats, just scooped it into his pockets and told me not to report it or he’d blow my fuckin’ head off.”
Thatwas another level.
Brousse said, “Did he show you a gun?”
“No, but he groped around in his pocket, you know? I’m not taking chances, I let him rip me off and called you. Go get him.” Pointing south.
“Description,” said Casagrande.
“Fat guy, white, er…knit cap, yeah a cap,” said Banks.
“Anything else?”
“Inked like a con, stringy beard on his chin. That enough?” Tapping faster.
“How old?”
“I dunno,” said Banks. “Forty? Also, he smells bad. Can you just get him? Please?”
“Clothing,” said Casagrande.
“Shitty,” said Banks. “Smelly green jacket—like a military whatever. Big pockets, he stuffed them, just cleaned me out. Are you gonna go get him or what?”
Brousse said, “Of course, sir. Anything for our citizens.”
Smirking. Armando loved her sass.
—
Brousse pulled back onto Imperial. “The old hand-in-pocket thing. We shoot the fools, turns out it’s a toothbrush we’re the bad guys. There should be a law against stupid.”
Casagrande said, “I hear that.”
She loved his agreeability.
—
They went south, checking the main drag and side streets, on the lookout for a fat white guy with pockets full of jelly candies and dope toys. It didn’t take long to spot him, walking stiffly but fast. More stocky than fat. Wide but solid-looking.
Head down, shoulders all bunched up. Black watch cap, olive-green army surplus jacket, soiled gray sweats, combat boots.
Brousse pulled up ten yards behind him, shifted to Park, and checked that her vest was on tight. Armando’s, as well.
He said, “Thanks, I’m fine,” and got out. “Sir. We need to talk to you.”
The guy stopped, rotated slowly. Flashed what he probably thought was a friendly smile that came across confused.
Casagrande muttered, “Definitely another mental case, okay, here we go.”
He approached, hand on holster. “How you doing, sir?” Using honey, not vinegar, his natural tendency plus it mostly worked.
The guy nodded and kept smiling. Then he slipped his hand under the jacket and toward his waistband.
Glint of metal.
