If someone broke in here for that, they’d better like Bruce Springsteen.” That was the mantra I’d repeated five or six times in slightly differing versions until Mike O’Malley shepherded his two young fledglings out of my house and down to Springfield’s police headquarters to file their reports. The task of putting my house back together was daunting, but like most unpleasant jobs, you just had to start and with any luck the process would take over. The entrance was easy—replace the rug and pad, pick up the overturned pots, sweep up the Spanish moss and pebble soil covers that had spilled onto the rough slate tiles. The young cop was right; it was a mess, but there was no permanent damage. It was just an illustration of something O’Malley had told me over a year ago: Springfield has everything the big city has. Including thieves. Two hours into my cleanup Mike O’Malley returned bearing gifts—a two-liter bottle of Fresca and a pepperoni pizza.
