Potter's Field by Rob Hart

Author:Rob Hart [Hart, Rob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Polis Books
Published: 2018-01-17T16:00:00+00:00

Bombay is asleep when I come in. I grab my laptop from my room, set it up at the kitchen table, search the fridge for something to eat and find leftover Chinese. Dump pork fried rice and beef chow fun onto a plate and stick it in the microwave.

As the microwave whirs I check my e-mail and find a note from my mom. She’s getting worried. Wants to know when I’m getting in. I write back that I’m tied up with a flight cancellation and a customs issue and that I’ll be home in a couple of days.

Apologize profusely.

Hate myself.

The food finishes. I pour myself a glass of water and dig in while doing a search of Richmond Terrance.

It’s six miles, running along the northern edge of the island. As with most urban waterfront neighborhoods, it’s not the nicest area, especially as you approach the western shore. Lots of vacant lots, industrial buildings, ancient homes in various states of disrepair. The kind of place you don’t want to break down or wander around at night.

There are a dozen bodegas that I can find on Google Maps street view. I rule out the ones closest to the ferry terminal. The foot traffic is too high. Too many people. There’s a police precinct not too far from there.

The terrace runs close to the water, except in the middle, where there’s a marina and a water processing plant. Too risky to bring stuff onto shore there. Probably eyes around the clock. Cameras. I strike out that area too.

If it’s true that product comes in from New Jersey, which is what a lot of the news coverage indicates, the Western end would make sense. You could throw it in a kayak and go from shore to shore. There are plenty of leisure vessels in the bay. Probably less so during the winter, but under cover of darkness? It stands to reason.

That narrows it down to four possibilities. At least on my list. I might be missing a few, but it’s a start.

There are two close to each other, past the Bayonne Bridge. Both located in places without a lot of nearby businesses, probably don’t have a lot of foot traffic. The kind of places that might need a little extra help staying open. I’ll start with those. Surveillance first. See what I can see.

There’s a shuffling sound behind me. I jump up, immediately fall into fighting stance.

Bombay is standing at the entrance of the kitchen, bleary-eyed, squinting. Bare-chested, in a pair of boxer shorts and big, gray socks with red trim.

“You’re a little jumpy,” he says.

“Who wears socks to sleep?”

“My feet get cold,” he says, opening the fridge. Then, “Fuck.”

“What?”

“I was saving that beef chow fun, bro.”

“For two in the morning?”

“It’s best at two in the morning.”

“I didn’t eat all of it.”

“You ate enough of it.”

There’s still some left on my plate. I offer it to him. He waves it off. “It’s fine.”

He prepares his own plate, sits down to eat it cold. As

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