His broad nose was running. He sniffed hard to reverse the flow of gravity. “I ain’t telling you.”

“His name is Levi,” said the girl.

“Shut up, Treasure!” He returned his attention to me. “What do you want Arlo for?”

“Can you tell me which house is his?”

“These ain’t houses,” said the boy, Levi. “These’re tornado magnets. No one’s gonna lead you to Arlo’s crib, cop.”

The wind spirited shopping flyers from the open dumpster and tumbled them across the open space.

“You give me a dollar, I will,” said the girl, Treasure.

“All right.”

“Show it first.” Her voice was more little-girlish than she was.

I removed a bill from my wallet. She marched to my window and held out a mittened palm.

“Make it two dollars, you want to know so bad.”

I pressed the crinkled bill into her hand, afraid the wind would catch it unless I held on tight. “A deal’s a deal.”

Her eyelashes were so pale it looked like someone had plucked them out as a punishment. “Arlo lives at number four.”

“Thank you.”

“He’s gonna be mad, you telling,” shouted Levi. “He’s gonna whoop you, girl.”

“Is that true?” I said, concerned I had created a potential problem. “Will Mr. Burch be mad at you?”

“Hell, no,” Treasure said. “Arlo lives with my mom’s cousins. They’ll give me another dollar when I tell them a cop’s on the way.”

“You’re quite an entrepreneur.”

“What that?”

“A businesswoman.”

“You’re full of shit.”

She removed her mittens and pulled a cheap Tracfone from her coat to text her relatives about the law enforcement officer who would soon be knocking at their door.

Arlo Burch was the owner of the most tricked-out mobile home I’d ever seen. Underneath all the additions, it was your standard double-wide: low-slung with vinyl siding stamped to resemble wood clapboards. It sat on concrete piers with a skirt of aluminum wrapped around the crawlspace. The furnace probably lay on its side beneath the building.

The crazy add-ons were what got me: the stained-glass door; the bow windows; the exterior porch wide enough to hold a square dance; the hot tub on said porch; and the eye-popping diameter of the satellite dish in the dooryard. Honestly, the antenna was as big around as a wading pool. It looked capable of picking up transmissions from Alpha Centauri.

Just as impressive was the fleet of vehicles overflowing the property. A new-looking Jeep Wrangler Rubicon (the recent model); matching black Chevy Monte Carlos; a sweet Harley-Davidson street rod. I counted three snowmobiles under tarps, two all-terrain vehicles, a Jet Ski that should also have been sheltered from the elements, and a very large object under a protective coating of white shrink-wrap. My guess was that the concealed watercraft was a pontoon boat for summer cruises on Lake Auburn or wherever Arlo liked to party.