CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I said it before, and I’ll say it again: you crazy,” Bo said as we entered my house through the front door.
“I’m not that crazy,” I said.
The alley was still cordoned off by police cars, and sirens were awash behind the house. Folks were sitting on their porches, gathered in the street, waiting for some more action. We had to sit in the car, surveying the street for a few moments before slipping out. On nights like this when I was in the middle of a conflict, I didn’t exactly like parking in the front of the house and advertising my location, but I didn’t have a choice.
At my kitchen table, I emptied the contents of a bag I brought from Joyner’s: a bag of peat moss and bottles for Bo’s odors. We also stopped at a pet shop on the way home and bought half a dozen live c
