“So where are we going?” Mason said. “You’ll know when we get there.” “Okay if I drive?” “Sure.” He led us a few yards down the street, pulled a remote from his pocket, and snicked open the lock to an opalescent silver-blue 1967 Jaguar E-Series coupe parked at a meter. “Like this car?” I said. “Sure do.” “Then we better take mine.” As we settled into the Bronco, he eyed the wires snaking from the slot where the CD player used to be. “Leave the Jag in Newport,” I said. “Get yourself a used Chevy or Ford to drive on the job. And if you ever have to park the Jag in Providence again, put it in a parking garage, lock it, remove the wheels, and take them with you.” “Got it, Mister Mulligan.” “And drop the ‘Mister.’ ” “I don’t know your first name. Just your byline, ‘L. S. A. Mulligan.’ ” “Tell you what,” I said. “You call me Mulligan, and I’ll call you Thanks-Dad.” “I prefer Edward.” The drive to Zerilli’s Market took us past two burned-out buildings.
