Free Dover Beach by Richard Bowker

on a dismal street of endless warehouses. The police knew enough to stay away from that street. I pedaled over there the next morning.
    A twelve-year-old black kid was squatting in the snow next to the front door, a shotgun cradled in his arms. His name was Jason, but for some reason Bobby called him Doctor J, so that's what everyone else called him too.
    "Hey, Doctor J," I said.
    "Hey, Wally."
    I got off my bike. "Is the man in?"
    He nodded. "Doin' some business."
    "Lemme go inside and wait for him, okay?"
    "Sure thing." He got up and pounded a complex rhythm on the door. After a moment Mickey opened it and smiled a greeting.
    "The bike okay here?" I asked Doctor J.
    "It ain't goin' nowhere."
    I went inside, and Doctor J resumed his guard duty in the snow.
    Brutus started barking as soon as the door closed behind me. Fortunately, he was chained to the metal railing of the stairs leading up to Bobby's office, so he couldn't do any damage. Brutus was an extremely large German shepherd, and we didn't get along.
    "Who's he talking to?" I asked Mickey, gesturing upstairs.
    "Tax people, I think."
    "Problems?"
    Mickey shook his head. "They need computer parts."
    "Ah."
    Mickey went back to working on the van, which was parked in the middle of the warehouse floor. I watched him for a while and then got bored; engines have always baffled me. I wandered around the warehouse and stared at the stuff Bobby had accumulated: television sets, lawn mowers, microwave ovens, pinball machines. They were just for show, of course. Anyone who broke in was welcome to steal a lawn mower. The good stuff was upstairs, in a room your casual thief was not likely to be able to enter; that room held the computer parts, the jewelry, the guns, the ammunition. Bobby preferred to deal in your smaller, more portable items. He knew what he was doing.
    Eventually the upstairs door opened and Bobby came out, followed by two nervous-looking men in gray overcoats. Each was carrying a shopping bag. Brutus wagged his tail as they went past; he was a very stupid dog. They hurried outside, with Bobby thanking them effusively and inviting them to do business again anytime. When he came back inside, he was grinning. "R. Gallagher, Inc., Suppliers to Government and Industry. Impressed, Wally?"
    "Are they gonna come back and audit you, now that their computers work?"
    "Hell, no. I also bribe them. A totally separate transaction. What's up?"
    "Can we talk?"
    "Sure. Come to the inner sanctum."
    We went upstairs. Brutus growled at me as I passed.
    The inner sanctum was decorated in faded fake-wood paneling, stained ceiling tiles, and orange shag carpeting. Very sophisticated. A photograph of John F. Kennedy was displayed prominently above the sagging couch. Scattered elsewhere on the walls were photographs of Bobby's mother, the 1984 world champion Boston Celtics, and Bobby himself, in younger days, just as fat but with more hair, shaking hands with some forgotten politician. There was a 1986 calendar with a photograph of a mostly naked woman luxuriating on a mound of tires. There was a plaque that said "Erin Go Bragh" and another that said "Schlitz—Breakfast of Champions." And behind the gray metal desk there was a crucifix.
    Bobby sat down beneath the crucifix. I sat on the couch. "So how's the case coming, Mr. Private Eye?" Bobby asked. "Any car chases yet? Any beautiful but mysterious broads wanna go to bed with you?"
    "Not so far. I could maybe use your help, Bobby."
    "Sure. Waddaya need?"
    "I need to find out the names of the scientists that the British took from around here when they were occupying New England."
    Bobby looked at me the way Winfield had when I asked to be paid. "Why, uh, do you think I'd know that, Wally? I was pretty busy staying alive back then. Didn't keep very close tabs on everything the British were up to."
    "Of course. I'm not asking you, Bobby. I'm just wondering if you can help me come up with a way to find out. See, my client thinks this guy