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protection weapon. He checked to make sure it was loaded, then clipped the holster to the inside of his waistband. It was unlikely that he would need it, but better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it. No John Q. Square was going to bump into him committing a felony and make a citizen’s arrest—not unless he thrived on lead in his stomach.
    He returned the attaché case to the closet and took out a tan leather jacket and Bally loafers. He’d carry them along and maybe stop in the city afterward. Too bad that he’d miss the fight card, but afterward the sharp guys would be at Charlie’s in the Mission.
    He put on low-cut Reeboks and zipped up a windbreaker. In the mirror he could see no bulge. Everything was snug and he made sure nothing would fall out when he went over the fence. That had happened once and it had been embarrassing. He lingered an extra moment at the mirror. He looked pretty good, kind of handsome in a big, beefy way, the image of a big Irish cop. It made him smile. He raised his hands in a boxer’s stance, added the rocking rhythm, and snapped off a couple of jabs. He boxed smooth for his size. In the gym they said he moved like a welterweight, but the gym was not the arena. When the crowd was loud and the bell rang, he forgot all he knew about boxing. He flailed like a wild man and got his ass kicked. That ended his dream of being the great white hope and making millions in the ring. He went back to driving a rig and stealing for a living.
    Now it was time to go commit a crime.
    He looked around the bedroom. He had forgotten nothing. The sharpened screwdriver, claw hammer, and Clorox bottle of kerosene were in the car trunk. His gloves were in the glove compartment.
    When he opened the bedroom door, he was assaulted by the bump and grind of rap music. “Turn that nigger shit off,” he yelled toward the kitchen. When there was no reply, he became furious and rushed down the hallway, muttering that it was too fuckin’ loud to hear himself think.
    The kitchen was empty. Through the back window he saw Gloria hanging shirts on the clothesline. Junior sat in a stroller.
    Diesel went to the back door. “What’s wrong with the fuckin’ dryer?” he asked.
    “‘Fucking’ dryer. Honestly, Charles. Your son—”
    “Fuck all that. He don’t know words yet.”
    “He’ll learn quick.”
    “Yeah, okay. I’m goin’ now. Say, how come you listen to that rap shit? I can’t believe how stupid that shit is. It’s got as much to do with music as a fart.”
    She gestured in a manner that was half dismissal and half goodbye, and returned to what she was doing. As she raised up on tiptoes, it accented her legs, and when she reached, her breasts pushed against her shirt. Whatever her other flaws, she had a great body. Did he have time for a quickie? Naw. “How come you don’t use the dryer?”
    “I starched your shirts the way you like them. The dryer pulls the starch out.”
    “That’s reasonable. I’m outta here, baby.”
    “When’ll you be back?”
    “Tonight sometime.”
    “Be careful.”
    “I’m always careful, baby.”
    “Give me a call if you’re later than midnight.”
    “That I’ll do,” he said, adding to himself: If I remember.
    Walking down the driveway to his new red Mustang GT convertible, Diesel felt good. Since running away from the Sisters of Mercy Catholic Home for Boys at age ten—and going to juvenile hall for the first time when they caught him breaking into a mom and pop market—he had never gone six months without an arrest. Not all were felonies, and not all were convictions, but they were damn sure arrests where he went to jail. That was, until now. Had he outgrown jail? Now he knew men who lived entirely by crime; they made big money and never went to prison. Maybe he could do it, too, especially with Troy doing the planning and calling the shots. Diesel smiled, thinking about how Troy would appreciate how things were ready for him. In the