Free The Witch's Key by Dana Donovan Page B

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Spinelli.
    I turned to Dominic and whacked him on the arm. “I
thought I told you not to shave.”
    “I didn’t,” he said, framing his naked chin between
his thumb and index finger.
    I pointed at Carlos. “What about him?”
    The old man eyeballed Carlos up and down carefully.
His level of scrutiny surprised me, as I got the feeling that he
really was not sure. He pointed the bottleneck at him reluctantly
and said, “He’s a cop, too?”
    “Yes.”
    He shrugged. “Huh. I wouldn’t a figured.”
    “See!” said Carlos. “I told you.”
    “Yeah, I pegged him for a transvestite. Thought ya
was haulin` him in for solicitation or sum`um.”
    I held my tongue on that. Spinelli, I am afraid, was
unable to exercise as much restraint. When he quit laughing long
enough to stop annoying the old man, I asked him about me.
    “You,” he said, “I wasn’t so sure `bout. Ya don’t
look like a cop, but ya sure ain’t no hobo neither.”
    “What are we doing wrong?”
    He coiled back and sneered, as though our presence
nauseated him. “I’ll tell ya whatcha doin` wrong. Your wastin` my
time. Now, why don’t ya git?”
    “Wasting your time?” said Carlos, and just the tone
of his voice caused the old man to shrink against the wall. “I’ll
show you whose time we’re wasting.” Carlos started toward him, but
I grabbed his arm at the elbow and reeled him back in. He gave me a
scornful eye, and under his breath said, “Tony, I wasn’t gonna hurt
him. I’m doing the good-cop bad-cop thing.”
    I nodded like I knew that. “Sure, next time, huh? For
now let’s try another approach.” I reached into my pocket and
pulled out a stack of bills. “How much is five minutes of your time
worth,” I asked the old man.
    He answered without hesitating. “A shiner.”
    “A what?”
    “A shiner, a double nickel.”
    I looked to Spinelli. “That’s ten bucks,” he
said.
    “For five minutes!” I peeled five ones off the top of
my stack. “Here. This is enough to set you up for tonight. Take it
or leave it.”
    The old man thought about it for all of two seconds.
Then, like a cobra, he snatched it from my hand and tucked it
inside his shoe.
    “All right. We good?” I asked.
    He dished up a near-toothless grin. “Weez good,
Capt`n.”
    “Okay, tell me. What are we doing wrong? What’s it
take to look like a hobo?”
    The old man pointed at my sweatshirt. “First off,
lose that. A hobo always wears dark clothing. It helps him hide in
the shadows so the bulls don’t git`em.”
    “Bulls?”
    “Railroad officers,” Spinelli said. I knew he’d know
that.
    “Secondly, if ya don’t want someone ta know ya from
around here, don’t go advertising the home team.”
    I looked down at my favorite sweatshirt again and ran
my hand over the New England Patriots lettering.
    “Another thing is ya got no layers. Ya dress like
that and ya might do okay in the jungle, but if ya catch-out on a
cold night, a good sixty mile-hour wind will tear ya a new butt
hole.”
    “Okay,” I said, pitching a, Why didn’t you know
that , look at Spinelli. I had come to appreciate the depth of
Spinelli’s research on an active case, and though he had worked out
the lingo in this one fairly well, he all but missed the living
mechanics of the hobo lifestyle. I turned again to the old man as
he swept a crooked finger across the three of us.
    “Also, ya got no bags.”
    “Bags?” I pictured luggage in the full suitcase
variety for some reason.
    “Yeah, you know, totes, knapsacks, backpacks: good`o
bedrolls and bindles. Good God, man, you wouldn’t travel empty
handed, would ya?”
    “No, I guess I wouldn’t,” I said.
    “Course, ya don’t wanna carry anythin` too big or
heavy, neither. Ya got to be able to run with it and hop trains
with it, too.”
    “Of course.”
    “And ya always carry water. Wind and booze will
dehydrate ya like a prune and ya never know where ya might find
your next spigot.”
    Everything he said made