Stolen by Daniel Palmer Page B

with divorced guys?”
    “Nah, they’d tell me that they’re happier now,” Clegg said. “That would just make me feel worse.”
    “Well, it’s good to know you have feelings,” I said.
    “Cut me and I still bleed,” Clegg said dramatically. “Of course, I’ll also stomp on your face and then fill your mouth with pepper spray.”
    “Have I ever asked if you’re a registered loose cannon?” I said to him, smiling.
    “If that registry exits,” Clegg said, “then my name is most certainly on it.”
    Clegg ordered us some hot wings as the bar began filling up with more of the after-work crowd. We had been talking for an hour or so when a woman with platinum blond hair, dressed in a business suit, sat down on the stool beside me. She hung her purse on the back of the stool and ordered a drink.
    “How goes your game?” Clegg asked me.
    “It’s growing and going,” I said.
    “It was a real lifesaver,” I wanted to say. Well, before Uretsky called, that is.
    From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a guy around my age, thin, hood over his head, sunglasses on indoors. He bumped clumsily up against the blond woman’s stool. He wasn’t that quick or that skilled in his fumbling attempt to snatch her purse. The purse got caught on the back of the stool, but he pulled on the strap hard enough to snap it.
    “Hey!” the surprised woman shouted. The commotion turned heads, but shock and surprise kept every patron firmly rooted in place. The thief accelerated as he raced past my bar stool. Clegg, still holding his sticky chicken wing, nonchalantly reached behind with his free hand to grab hold of the fleeing man’s sweatshirt. With startling quickness, Clegg yanked the man to the floor and at the same instant leapt up from his stool. The man fell with a hard thud, and I heard the air rush out of his lungs. Before he could wiggle away, Clegg was kneeling on his back, wrenching his arms behind him to snap his silver bracelets in place.
    “Yo, clown town,” Clegg said, his voice calm and his breathing even. “Looks like you picked the wrong bar to snatch from.”
    Applause filled the room as I handed the woman back her purse and Clegg hoisted the handcuffed man to his feet. I motioned to Clegg, because I’d obviously played no real part in his apprehension. Still, the victim thanked us both profusely.
    “This job would be great if it weren’t for all the criminals,” Clegg said to me as he took out the handcuffed man’s wallet to check his ID. Next, Clegg got out his cell phone, presumably to call for backup. “Here’s your living proof that crime doesn’t pay, Johnny,” Clegg said, turning the thief to face me. The man looked remorseful only because he’d been captured.
    Why did Clegg just say that to me? I wondered. Here’s your living proof that crime doesn’t pay. Could he know?
    Clegg cupped his cell phone’s receiver and then, turning to me, said, “Brookline dispatch. I’m on hold.” The crowd kept still and hushed, watching the spectacle of a plainclothes police officer pressing a handcuffed man up against their neighborhood bar.
    A minute or so ticked by with Clegg holding his phone tight to his ear. His expression revealed a growing frustration. He kept nodding and occasionally would say into the phone, “Yeah . . . all right . . . okay . . . What’s going on?” He listened awhile, then something about Clegg’s expression changed—he got a disgusted look, but not one that conveyed any agitation. “Really? No shit,” he said. “Really? That’s all sorts of messed up. . . . No, don’t worry. . . . Yeah, I’m sure . . . I’ll keep him occupied.” Clegg ended the call, then said to the guy he nabbed, “Hey, buddy, looks like you’re going to have to wait awhile in my car until we get some Brookline PD here to take you to the station for booking. Promise me you’re not going to mess up my backseat?”
    The guy said nothing; he just looked away.
    “Want to walk with me,