Wolf: Does that mean Worcester rests in pieces?

I wasn’t sure how to answer. With a cruel joke of my own? Something like that, I typed. UR funny.

Wolf: Be more specific. Give me the bloody details, Potter. Give!

Mr. Potter: Is this a test? I don’t need this shit.

Wolf: You know it is.

I typed: The septic tank. I told you that.

No response came from the Wolf. He was rubbing my nerves raw.

So when do I get my new boy? I typed.

A pause of several seconds.

Wolf: You have the money?

Mr. Potter: Of course I do.

Wolf: How much do you have?

I thought I knew the correct answer to that, but I couldn’t be sure. Two weeks earlier, Taylor had taken one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars from his account with a money manager at Lehman in New York.

Mr. Potter: One hundred twenty-five thousand. The money isn’t a problem. It’s burning a hole in my pocket.

No response from Wolf.

I typed: U told me not to be redundant.

Wolf: All right then, maybe we’ll get you the boy. Be careful! There might not be another!

I typed: Then there won’t be another hundred twenty-five thousand!!!

Wolf: I’m not worried. There are lots of freaks like you. You’d be amazed.

Mr. Potter: So. How is your hostage?

Wolf: I have to go back to work. . . . One more question, Potter. Just to be safe. Where did you get your name?

I looked around the room. Oh, Christ. It was something I hadn’t thought to ask Taylor.

A voice whispered close to my ear. Monnie’s. “The kids’ books? They call Harry Mr. Potter at the Hogwarts school. Maybe? I don’t know.”

Was that it? I needed to type something; it had to be the right answer. Was the name from the Harry Potter books? Because he liked boys? Then something from Taylor’s office in the farmhouse flashed in my brain.

My fingers went to the keys. Paused for a second. Then I typed my answer: This is absurd. The name is from the Jamaica Kincaid novel—Mr. Potter. Fuck U!

I waited for a response. So did everyone else in the room. Finally it came.

Wolf: I’ll get you the boy, Mr. Potter.

Chapter 85

Chapter 85

WE WERE IN BUSINESS again, and I was back working the streets, the way I liked it, the way it used to be.

I had been in Boston several times before, loved the city enough to consider moving there, and was comfortable. For the next two days we shadowed a student named Paul Xavier, from his apartment on Beacon Hill, to his classes at Harvard, to the Ritz-Carlton, where he was a waiter, to popular clubs like No Borders and Rebuke.

Xavier was the “bait” we had set out for the Wolf and his kidnapping crew.