Free Highway 61 by David Housewright

first Sunday in November, so even though it was only 5:00 P.M. when I left the house, the trees were already black silhouettes against an orange-red sky. I took the Audi, leaving my Jeep Cherokee in the two-car garage, and worked my way out of the neighborhood. I’m a St. Paul boy, born and raised, and proud of it; I had no desire to live anywhere else. Unfortunately, after I came into my money, I moved to Falcon Heights, a first ring suburb. It was an accident. I thought I was buying a house in one of the more affluent St. Paul neighborhoods. It wasn’t until after I signed an offer sheet that I realized I was on the wrong side of Hoyt Avenue. I’ve been getting crap about it ever since from Bobby Dunston and some other friends.
    I was on Highway 280 and heading for eastbound I-94 when my iPhone played the Ella Fitzgerald–Louis Armstrong cover of “Summertime.” I don’t like to talk on my cell and drive at the same time, so I let voice mail pick up the message. Ten minutes later, I parked in the lot outside Rickie’s. Before going inside, I checked my messages. There was a report from my private security firm. Someone had broken into my home.
    *   *   *
    There were two St. Anthony police cars and a cruiser from the security firm parked in front of my home when I arrived. There were also about a dozen of my neighbors standing around and shaking their heads. Not long ago they presented me with a petition bearing nearly fifty signatures demanding that I move. I can’t say I blamed them. I was a far cry from Benjamin Hoyt, the pioneer preacher the avenue was named after, and the kidnappings, murders, and shoot-outs that had occurred since I moved in certainly constituted a “detriment to the community,” as the petition suggested. Still, they seemed to be getting used to me. A couple of neighbors broke into sincere applause when I sprinted across my lawn toward the assembly of officials gathered in my driveway. One of them shouted, “Hey, McKenzie. Who did you shoot this time?”
    Those kidders.
    Sergeant Martin Sigford of the St. Anthony Police Department was the first to greet me.
    “What the hell, McKenzie,” he said.
    Falcon Heights didn’t have a police department. Instead it had a contract with the St. Anthony PD to provide services. Sigford had been to my house on several occasions.
    “I coulda sent a couple of rookies,” he added. “Seeing it’s you, though, when the alarm sounded I hightailed it over here expecting gunplay, expecting who knows what? Instead, all I get is a simple break-in, and not even your house. It’s your garage. How disappointing.”
    “Sorry ’bout that, Marty,” I said.
    “Mr. McKenzie, your house seems locked up tight.” That came from a member of my security firm. “We must ask you to check the premises, of course,” he added—but then, he had a report to file. “In the meantime, if you would examine your garage.”
    Sigford led the way toward the two-vehicle structure; there was also a portal for a boat and trailer, but I added that on a couple of years ago. The garage itself had been constructed long before society discovered that it was dangerous to put windows in. That’s how the thieves gained entrance—they broke the window of my side door and reached in to unlock it. From that instant, they had less than five minutes to take what they wanted before the St. Anthony Police Department responded to the alarm my security system broadcast. Guards from the security firm arrived moments later.
    “No one was observed in the vicinity when we arrived,” Sigford said. “We checked with your neighbors. They didn’t see anyone, either. The unsups must have known they tripped your alarm as soon as they broke the glass, although, if they had known about the security system, why did they break in at all?”
    Together, we stepped inside the garage. The light was already on.
    “That was us,” Sigford said.
    I searched quickly. Lawn mower, snow blower,