12SAN MARTIN, MID-OCTOBER—“IT’S a steal, Bob. Really.” Dan Coleman was on one end of the mattress. Bobbie carried the other. It was late morning, overcast, an omen of the coming rainy season. “You and Red’ll make out well.”
“You think so?” With his butt, Bobby pushed the front door open, stepped up, bent the mattress so Dan could get his end in.
“I do. And what do you have to lose? You’ve got nothing in it. The commission covered your closing costs, didn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Bobby said. “If it wasn’t such a dump ... Red’s already got every minute of my spare time spoken for, for the next three months.”
They worked their way through the tiny foyer, into the hallway, to the first bedroom, dropped the mattress among a pile of boxes. Behind them came Al Bartecchi and Tom Houghton, wrestling the
