CHAPTER TWENTY
A tow truck was waiting in the alley behind my house. It had my Lincoln Town Car on hooks. The truck’s tires growled on the gravel as it beeped and backed my car toward my garage.
My car was a sorry sight. It had been through hell.
A muscular black man hopped out of the truck with a clipboard.
“What are the chances his name is Steve McJerkyl?” Bo asked.
“Zero,” I whispered.
“Which one of you is Lester Broussard?” the tow truck driver asked.
I raised my hand and signed for the car.
“What do I owe you?” I asked.
“The police covered it,” the driver said.
Bo waltzed over to the car, whistled, and patted the hood.
“How bad is she, doc?” Bo asked. “Will she live?”
The driver puffed. “She’s drivable. I don’t think she can take much more, though.”
He climbed into the tr
