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when you consider how desperate everyone is to get rid of the gangs.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd, it’ll get struck down within six months in a courtroom. It’s one thing to say, ‘We should declare martial law and get these fuckers off the streets, civil rights be damned.’ It’s another to actually do it, get that much closer to fascism, turn Roxbury and Dorchester into another South Central, helicopters and shit flying overhead day and night. Why the interest?”
    I tried to put Mulkern or Paulson or Vurnan with this and it didn’t fit. Mulkern, the house liberal, would never publicly stand behind something like this. But Mulkern, the pragmatist, would never take a public stand in favor of the gangs either. He’d simply take a vacation the week the bill came to floor.
    â€œWhen’s it coming to floor?” I asked.
    â€œNext Monday, the third of July.”
    â€œThere’s nothing else coming up you can think of?”
    â€œNot really, no. They got a mandatory seven bill for child molesters will probably sail through.”
    I knew about that one. Seven years mandatory prison time for anyone convicted of child molestation. No parole possibility. The only problem I had with it was that it wasn’t called the mandatory life bill, and that there wasn’t a provision that ensured that those convicted would be forced to enter mainstream population, and get back a little of what they gave.
    Again Richie said, “Why the interest, Patrick?”
    I considered Sterling Mulkern’s message: Talk to Richie Colgan. Sell out. For the briefest moment, I considered telling Richie about it. Teach Mulkern to ask me to help him soothe his ruffled feathers. But I knew Richie would have no choice but to put it in his next column, in bold print, and professionally speaking, crossing Mulkern like that would be the same as cutting my wrists in a bathtub.
    â€œWorking on a case,” I told Richie. “Very hush-hush at the moment.”
    â€œTell me about it sometime,” he said.
    â€œSometime.”
    â€œGood enough.” Richie doesn’t press me and I don’t press him. We accept the word no from each other, which is one reason for the friendship. He said, “How’s your partner?”
    â€œStill mouthwatering.”
    â€œStill not coming across for you?” He chuckled.
    â€œShe’s married,” I said.
    â€œDon’t matter. You’ve had married before. Must drive you nuts, Patrick, a beautiful woman like that around you every day, and nary a single desire to touch your dick in her whole luscious being. Damn, but that’s got to hurt.” He laughed.
    Richie’s under the impression that he’s a real hoot sometimes.
    I said, “Yeah, well, I got to run.” Something moved again in the black pocket of the schoolyard. “How about a couple of beers soon?”
    â€œBring Angie?” I thought I could hear him panting.
    â€œI’ll see if she’s in the mood.”
    â€œDeal. I’ll send over a few file reports on those bills.”
    â€œ Gracias .”
    He hung up and I sat back and looked through the slit in the curtains. I was familiar with the shadows now, and I could see a large shape sitting within them. Animal, vegetable, or mineral, I couldn’t tell, but something was there. I thought about calling Bubba; he was good for times like these when you weren’t sure what you were walking into. But he’d called me from a bar. Not a good sign. Even if I could track him down, he’d just want to kill the trouble, not investigate it. Bubba has to be used sparingly, with great care. Like nitro.
    I decided to press Harold into service.
    Harold is a six-foot stuffed panda bear that I won at the Marshfield Fair a few years back. I tried to give him to Angie at the time; I’d won him for her, after all. But she gave me that look she’d give me if I lit up a cigarette during sex,