Jimmy took the seat opposite me and issued a heavy sigh. “Is it always like this for you, Mr. Snow?”

“Like what?” I said after a gluttonous bite of my sandwich.

“Like—God Lord Jesus forgive me—a rush?”

“Sometimes,” I said, shoving a fry in my mouth to join the bite of sandwich. “Most of the time it’s just ugly work somebody has to do. Like cleaning the grease traps at McDonald’s. Or voting. Thanks for having my six, Jimmy.”

“Thanks for trusting me to have your six, boss.”

My phone rang and I answered it.

“I think you’d better get back here,” Lucy said breathlessly. “Now.”

“Why?” I said. “What’s going on?”

“I hate to use racist metaphors employing my people’s incarceration on barren land,” Lucy said. “But I think your pal in Switzerland? The, you know—that cleaning guy? Yeah, well, I think he just wandered off the reservation. Big-time.”

32

32

I insisted Jimmy drive back home with me, leaving his Ford truck in the One Campus Martius parking garage. He’d just seen my hunter-killer dark side up close and very personal. I wasn’t bothered so much by the fact that I’d called on him to participate in my sometimes-grim world but that he had been willing and able to commit to such night moves without question or hesitation. Quick converts to violence are just as troubling as nonviolent zealots.

I had to see which one of those was riding with me.

We didn’t talk for a while, but his body language told me he was relaxed—no nervous tics or tells. No need for me to make a roadside stop so he could throw up. My gut told me Jimmy had seen enough violence in his young life.

The temperature had dropped considerably and cold melt-water was freezing again as it rushed to sewers. WDET public radio warned of freezing wind and a couple inches of snow heading our way.

For half the wind-whipped ride to my house, Jimmy stared at the passenger and cargo space of my new GMC Yukon.

“Yeah, I know,” I finally said. “It’s like a leather-upholstered barn.”

“Drywall’s up on the last house, taped and mudded,” Jimmy said, introducing a conversation I was unprepared to have. “Another couple weeks and Miss Jesse can put it up for sale. I figure we should be able to clear two, maybe even three times what we done put into it the way property is going around here.”

“Maybe you can just settle into school after this one, Jimmy,” I said.

“I like getting my hands dirty and breakin’ a sweat, Mr. Snow,” he said.

A moment of silence passed between us as I dodged a freewheeling camo-painted Ford F-250 Super Duty truck with a tattered “Make America Great Again” bumper sticker. Finally, I said, “Just to be clear, would you have stuck that knife into the back of Bojing’s head?”