The Spark

CHAPTER 8

Donovan

Being in the old neighborhood over the last week reminded me it had been too long since I’d stopped by to see Bud. Bud—real name Frances Yankowski—was the closest thing to a father I’d ever known. If I’m being real, he was pretty much the closest thing to a mother, too. So the following night, rather than go home after leaving the office, I headed back to Brooklyn and stopped in at a local business to find out where Bud set up shop these days. I walked into a corner deli that had been there since I was a kid, though I’d never seen the woman behind the counter before.

“Hi. Can you tell me how to get to Bud’s Flower Shop, please?” That was code for Where is Bud squatting to feed the community tonight? All of the local businesses knew the answer and never minded helping spread the word. At least they didn’t mind sharing the information with people who seemed like they could use a free meal.

But the cashier looked me up and down and frowned.

Yeah, I know. I didn’t change out of my work clothes. Most people judge you because you wear hand-me-downs with holes in them, but not in my old stomping ground. Walk in looking like you shop at Brooks Brothers, and you’re bound to piss someone off.

“Four sixty-two Carnie Street.” She lifted her chin to the aisles behind me. “You look like maybe you can afford to bring some dessert or something.”

“Good idea.” I smiled and grabbed half a dozen packages of cookies off the shelf and brought them up to the register to pay. “You have a good night.”

When I arrived at the address the woman had given me, people were walking in and out of a dilapidated house with boarded-up windows, so I knew it was the right place. Bud served a community di

For his day job, Bud owned a Boar’s Head provisions route. Every morning he delivered fresh meats to delis, restaurants, and supermarkets, but he also picked up their soon-to-expire food, which he turned into a daily feast to feed the hungry and homeless of the community. But no one ate for free more than once. No exceptions. You had to work for Bud in order to continue to be fed, whether you helped tend his garden, loaded and unloaded his truck full of supplies, or pitched in and did lawn work for the restaurants that helped him. Bud was the heart of this community, and he was also the only way I’d eaten a decent meal most of the time when my mom took off.

Entering the rundown house, I walked over to the row of tables where Bud was dishing food out of battery-operated hot plates. He might be close to seventy now, but he was sharp as a tack and never missed a thing. I hadn’t thought he’d noticed me come in, until he grumbled without looking up.

“Jesus Christ, you look like a narc.” Bud waved the serving spoon in his hand, motioning to my suit.

I chuckled. If I were wearing a French maid outfit, I’d get my balls busted less around here. “Nice to see you, too, Bud.”

He nodded toward the empty spot next to him behind the serving table. “Get an apron on, kid. I could use help. But I wouldn’t want you to mess up that monkey suit.”

Thirteen or thirty, it didn’t matter. I did whatever the old man said. So for the next hour, we served di

“So what’s new in the land of movers and shakers? You get off any of those Ponzi-scheme idiots who rob people of their retirement savings lately?”

“Luckily, no.” I shoveled a heaping forkful of pasta into my mouth. It was probably the best-tasting thing I’d had in months. Bud didn’t screw around when it came to cooking or his plants. I wiped sauce from my mouth. “How’s your knee doing?”

“It’s holding up. The humidity’s been low, so that helps. I have no idea why Florida is the land of old people. Dry heat is so much easier on old bones.”

Bud caught me up on all the latest neighborhood gossip—who was feuding with who, and who got caught doing what. I told him I’d stopped down to see Dario the other day, and before I knew it, we were the only two left at the house.

“Welp…” He stood. “Guess we better be going before the druggies get a

I smiled. “I’ll load your van.”

I packed up all of the serving supplies and locked the back of Bud’s van with the same rusted chain and padlock he’d been using since I was a kid.

Still holding it, I said, “I think it might be time for a new lock.”

“Why? Is that one broken?”

“No, but it’s rusted to shit. One day the key isn’t going to turn it anymore.”

Bud shrugged. “Then that’ll be the day I spring for a new lock.”

We shook hands next to the van. “If you’re not busy this weekend,” he said, “I gotta turn over the garden. Could use an extra set of hands.”

“Saturday or Sunday?”

“Saturday. Got plans with my lady friend on Sunday.”

Shit. I needed to work on Saturday—keep my billing up. I’d have to go in at the crack of dawn, but I’d figure out a way to pull it off. “What time?” I asked.

“Two sounds good to me. When you’re done, you can help me prep for the night’s di

I nodded. “Sounds good. See you Saturday.”

I started to walk away, but turned back. “Hey, you mind if I bring someone?”

Bud shrugged. “He got arms and know how to use a shovel?”

“He’s got arms, and I can teach him how to use a shovel if he doesn’t know. It’s a twelve-year-old client of mine. Sadly, the kid reminds me a lot of myself at that age.”

“Oh Lord.” Bud shook his head. “Not sure I can handle two of you. But yeah, fine. Bring ’em.”

***

“Shovel? You just told Mrs. Benson at Park House we were going to your office to talk about strategy.”

“Well, that wasn’t a total lie. I consider wherever I am to be my office, and I did want to discuss your case for a few minutes at some point today.”

“But why are you going to shovel someone’s dirt?”

I glanced at Storm and back to the road. “I’m not.”

“You just said we were going to some guy’s house to dig up his old garden so he can get ready to plant a new one. Isn’t that digging in dirt?”

“Yes, but you asked why I was going to shovel dirt. I’m not. We are.”

Storm looked at me like I had two heads. “I’m not shoveling dirt.”

“You wa

“What the fuck?”

I pointed at him. “Watch your language. Bud will have you chop a dozen onions, even if he doesn’t need them chopped, if you talk like that. Plus, have some respect. I’m older than you, and I’m also your attorney.”