Free A Perfect Life by Mike Stewart

the way Kate had planned. She needed time to think. She stood up from the table. “I'm not sure what Scott needs, Mr. Walker. But I'm afraid he's going to put too much trust in the police. Tell them everything he knows, thinking, you know, good guys always come out on top, or something equally idiotic. He needs advice from someone who's been around. I know he doesn't have any family. No one to help him. I thought maybe he could rely on you.” As she spun to walk away, she added, “I guess I was wrong.”
    “Kate?”
    She stopped and turned without answering.
    “This boy on the street out there with the burned face? He a friend of yours?”
    Kate's eyes drifted to the window and the street scene beyond. She shook her head. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
    As Kate Billings walked from the dining room, Cannonball Walker raised a hand at the waiter. The old man ordered a steak sandwich and iced tea.
    The waiter jotted notes on a pad. “Anything else?”
    “Yeah.” He glanced out the window to find that his watcher had vanished. “But I don't think you got it.”
    The waiter smiled because he didn't know what else to do. Thirty minutes later, Walker stepped into the lobby and asked the bell captain to have his car brought around.
    Needles of cold rain stung the back of Walker's neck and hands as he watched his black Caddy roll up the circular driveway. As the red-jacketed driver stepped out, Walker pressed three ones into his hand.
    “Thank you, sir. Do you need any directions this afternoon?”
    The old man shook his head and lowered his backside into the driver's seat. “Nope. Been there before.”
    The attendant closed the driver's door. Cannonball Walker buckled his seat belt and steered fourteen feet of black steel out into Boston's midday traffic.
     
    Almost an hour later, Cannonball Walker pulled up next to the house on Welder Avenue. Two patrol cars were jammed into the driveway. An unmarked cruiser hugged the curb out front. Walker parked behind the cruiser and stepped out into the gray afternoon. Dark clouds had packed needles of cold rain into hard sleet. Each pellet felt like a fired BB against the old man's neck and cheeks.
    No one was outside. Too damn cold. Walker mounted the wooden steps that cut a diagonal across the side of the garage and paused on the small porch to listen. He knocked, and the door opened.
    A uniformed officer—kind of a munchkin—said, “May I help you?”
    “Here to see Scott.”
    “There's been a break-in. Mr. Thomas is fine. No need to worry. But he can't be disturbed. He's talking with the detective.”
    Walker looked impassively at the tiny officer. “You gonna let me in outta this weather?”
    “Uh, well . . .”
    “Hell of a thing. Keep an old man standin' out in the sleet, freezin' to death. That the way you were raised, Officer?”
    Patrolman Tinelle blinked and cleared his throat and stepped back one pace to let the old man step out of the sleet. “Sorry, sir. But you're going to have to come back later to see your friend.” The expression on the officer's face changed. “But, as long as you're here, can I have your name?”
    Walker had stepped into the demolished living room. He could see into the bedroom. Voices floated through the open doorway. The old man smiled and nodded at the patrolman; then he leaned past him and called out, “Scott!”
    “Just a minute, sir. I told you—”
    “Scott! It's me. Cannonball Walker. I need you out here
now
!”
    The rumble of voices from the bedroom grew louder with protestations, and Scott Thomas walked into the living room. “Mr. Walker?”
    Walker nodded at Tinelle. “This here mini-a-ture po-lice-man won't let me in outta the cold.”
    Scott stepped forward and glared at Tinelle. “What's wrong with you?” He turned to Walker. “Come on in. Please. I'm glad you came.” He waved an impotent palm at the mess. “I'm in the middle of something here.”
    Tinelle shifted his eyes to Lieutenant Cedris,