Free The New Dead by John Connolly, Various Page B

had done some handiwork in just about every house within six blocks, at one time or another.
     
    Word is that old man Copper has kept watch every day of his life, especially since Becca was planted.
     
    Old man Copper watches me now.
     
    I wave.
     
    Old man Copper watches and doesn’t move.
     
    I sit.
     
    Old man Copper sits.
     
     
    What Copper built, T takes.
     
    House by house, shell by shell.
     
    What Copper knew, T sells.
     
    T takes it all.
     
    T and his crew work fast, under cover of night.
     
    In through a cellar window, case the joint.
     
    T goes in. Always T.
     
    T cases his own shells.
     
    T through the window, in and out, rally the boys and clean it out, fast.
     
    Tally, score.
     
    The amateurs start with the laundry room and boiler, maybe the radiators if they can get them out.
     
    T has it down to a science.
     
    Tools, not by hand.
     
    Professionals.
     
    Out with the plumbing and gas fixtures - hot-water cylinder, the copper pipes, the spouting, the pumps.
     
    Cut the gas line when needed; whatever.
     
    One house blew and burned on Orvis Street; not T’s worry.
     
    That is the amateurs.
     
    T never blows a house.
     
    Might be more to take.
     
    Easy yield of three to five hundred or more per property on copper alone.
     
    The rest is gravy.
     
    Sweet.
     
    House by house, street by street, block by block, up the ante.
     
    Air-conditioner handlers and compressors.
     
    House in good shape, T and company snag kitchen cabinets, toilets, French doors, windows.
     
    Bathroom vanities, especially when they’re choice.
     
    T takes it all.
     
     
    There’s T.
     
    T drives by Copper’s house.
     
    I see T drive by Copper’s house.
     
    T doesn’t turn to look at Copper.
     
    Copper doesn’t look at T.
     
     
    Copper is sitting.
     
    I am sitting on Copper’s porch step.
     
    ‘Have you thought about it?’
     
    Copper spits.
     
    ‘I appreciate the offer, kid.’
     
    Copper looks at me.
     
    ‘I don’t need anybody, kid.’
     
    I look at Copper.
     
    ‘I’ve got mine, and I don’t need anybody.’
     
    I look at Copper.
     
    ‘Besides, I’m home, always home.’
     
    I look at Copper.
     
    ‘Nobody’s going to be breaking into my place.’
     
    Copper looks away.
     
    ‘Appreciate the offer, though.’
     
    I look away.
     
    ‘You’re OK, kid. I remember you.’
     
    I don’t remember.
     
    ‘But I don’t know your buddies, and I don’t want them around here.’
     
    I sit on Copper’s porch steps.
     
    I look over at the shell across the street.
     
    There’s T.
     
    T drives by Copper’s house.
     
    I see T drive by Copper’s house.
     
    T doesn’t turn to look at Copper.
     
    Copper doesn’t look at T.
     
    T turns to look at me.
     
    T waves at me.
     
    I lift my hand and wave back.
     
    I watch T drive away.
     
    Copper spits.
     
    ‘For that matter, I reckon I don’t want you coming around for a while.’
     
    I look away.
     
    I get up.
     
    I walk.
     
    I walk.
     
     
    Fetus and I walk.
     
    Nobody notices.
     
    Nobody cares.
     
    Fetus and I walk two days, two nights.
     
    Fetus and I find new shells.
     
    Fetus and I hunker down.
     
    Fetus and I feed in the shells.
     
    Fetus and I meet Croak and Shimmy.
     
    Croak was with the Tenth Mountain Division, ended up in Afghan istan with the Eighty-second Airborne. Shimmy was in Uruzgan Province. Talk talk talk.
     
    We talk shit.
     
    Croak and Shimmy show us new shells. They call one their FOB.
     
    Croak and Shimmy invite us in.
     
    Shimmy shows off two assault rifles he’s stashed in the FOB, and his walking armory.
     
    Wears an assault vest, jammed with four loaded AK-47 magazines, thirty rounds in each mag. I ask what he needs it for.
     
    Shimmy laughs.
     
    Croak and Shimmy and Fetus and me cherry-pick a strip gang in the FOB.
     
    Croak and Shimmy and Fetus and me dig in.
     
    Croak and Shimmy and Fetus and me have a fine time.
     
     
    Croak and Fetus are shouting.
     
    Fetus grabs