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“So they’re going to get him?” Jorge said.

Earl frowned. “That’s the only thing that really bothers me about quitting now. They say one chance in a million they’ll be able to tie it to the guy in the camel-hair coat.” Suddenly, tears welled in Earl’s eyes. He reached out, putting bandaged hands on each of their arms.

“Not the only thing that bothers me about quitting. I’ll miss the two of you guys. I won’t forget that it was you guys who pulled me out.”

Tears rolled down Earl’s face. Embarrassed, he smiled. “I’m gonna will you my dirty drawers. The two of you will have to fight over who gets to wear ’em.”

“It’s okay, Earl,” Tom said. “We’ve been talking. It won’t be the same without you. We probably should have moved on a long time ago. We’re through with impound work too.”

They stood in front of the hospital for a while before they headed home.

Tom said, “Time to implement Plan B, Jorge.”

Jorge was quiet for a long time, then said, “I already did. Go ahead. Laugh. It didn’t work.”

Tom looked sideways at Jorge. “You put the paint on eBay?”

“The day the place blew up.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Not a nibble.” Jorge’s expression changed from depressed to angry. “I can’t believe it. I mean, where are people’s values, anyway? When a moldy cheeseburger is worth more than a piece of musical history…”

Surprising himself, Tom felt bad. At that moment, having Jorge’s Plan B work out would have made him feel better.

“Like you said, timing is everything. Who knows, a year or two from now it could still go big. Prince dies, you put the paint back on eBay with all the history about Prince and First Avenue…”

Jorge shook his head. But his face changed again. He didn’t look exactly happy, but he looked pleased with himself.

“Talking to Earl just now. It made me think. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hauling that paint around. It’ll just make me feel like a loser. I’ve got another idea.”

“Like what?” Tom said.

Tom pulled a wheeled piece of luggage behind him as he and Jorge walked down the parking ramp.

“You’re sure about this?” he said.

“I’ve spent the last week checking everything out,” Jorge replied. “Trust me. The setup is perfect for us. He’s got the Porsche parked in a special section just beyond the checkout booth. Supposed to give him extra security. But the checkout guy faces in the opposite direction, sleeps ninety percent of the time. If the Porsche was in the other part of the ramp, there’d be security cameras. But there’s nothing on the other side of the checkout booth. And it’s mostly contract parking, so not a lot of traffic going in and out this time of day. Just act normal.”

It was like Jorge said. The guy in the checkout booth didn’t even look up when they walked by him. There was a Lincoln Navigator next to the Porsche that completely blocked the view between them and the booth.

“Another piece of luck,” Jorge said, giving the Navigator a pat with his gloved hand. “You want to say something in French before we do this? Kind of like a baptism?”

“Let’s just do it and get out of here,” Tom said. He bent over and unzipped the suitcase, pulled out one can of paint, handing it to Jorge. Then he took out the second can and pried the lid off.

Together, it took maybe three minutes to cover the white Porsche in black paint. When there was maybe six inches of the thick, viscous old paint left in Tom’s can, he said, “Jorge. Check the driver’s side. See if the door’s open.”

“You want to do the interior?”

“No. I want to do the engine, if we can pop the hood.”

They were a half-block down the street when Tom noticed their boots were tracking black paint.

“Damn,” he said. “We’ve got to break our trail. Wipe down our boots over there, on that snowbank.”

Tom looked over his shoulder at the snow after they’d cleaned their boots.

“Now I want to say something in French,” he said.

“Shoot.”

“Très convenable,” Tom said.

“Tray what?”

“Very appropriate,” Tom said. “The snow back there. Where we wiped our boots. It reminds me of something that happened the first day I started working for Earl.”

BUMS

BY WILLIAM KENT KRUEGER

West Side (St. Paul)

Kid showed up at the river in the shadow of the High Bridge with a grin on his face, a bottle of Cutty in his hand, and a twenty-dollar bill in his pocket. Kid was usually in a good mood, but I’d never seen him quite so happy. Or so flush. And I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a bottle of good scotch.

It was going on dark. I had a pot of watery stew on the fire—rice mostly, with some unidentifiable vegetables I’d pulled from the dumpster behind an Asian grocery store.

I held up the Cutty to the firelight and watched the reflection of the flames lick the glass. “Rob a bank?”

“Better.” Kid bent over the pot and smelled the stew. “Got a job.”

“Work? You?”

“There’s this guy took me up on my offer.”