Boyd insisted on helping Chris schlep his boxes up to the door of Yurbin’s house: a dilapidated two-story, gray-shingled affair. Chris rapped out what sounded like a code on the door.
“Mr. Yurbin?” he called. “You have some visitors who are going to make you some …” Chris gave me a puzzled look. “What is it again?”
“Genuine gelato,” I supplied.
There was some shuffling and scraping behind the door, but no voice. Then Yurbin’s voice said, “No, they can’t come in.”
“I told you,” Chris said noncommittally to Boyd. “And don’t think you can shoot your way through. Yurbin had a metal door installed.”
“What is he,” Marla asked, “a drug dealer?”
Boyd said, “We don’t actually shoot our way into houses so much anymore.”
When Chris grinned, two dimples like commas appeared in his cheeks.
“Tel
