that marks the neighborhood’s perimeter, and it was only a block away, he’d have made a clean getaway. But at the split second the thief was about to sprint past the last corner, Pluto rounded that very corner pushing his handcart ahead of him. I was told it was a spectacular collision. Tubby Pluto was knocked over backward but unhurt, and by the time the tangle of thief and handcart had come to a noisy, messy finale against a wall, the neighbors had caught up and made a citizen’s arrest. They recovered the stolen items— money and some silver—and frogmarched the bruised, battered, and bleeding robber back to the church courtyard and strung him up to await more conventional procedures. San Matías broke out into a jubilant cacophony of triumph. A bemused Pluto, who still didn’t have a good grip on what had happened, was declared Hero of the Hour.
He came by the house yesterday right on schedule. It was scarcely light yet, but there was no mistaking the large bow of purple ribbon clipped to the top rail of his hand truck. He’d also had his head shorn down to a half inch of hair. I scarcely recognized him. “Good morning, Pluto!” I said, astonished. “Great haircut! And it looks like your cart won first prize. Congratulations!” Up went his shoulders, down went the corners of his mouth, and he scratched his new stubble with one spatulate, filthy hand. “I do what She tell me, Señor, an’ go where She tell me to go,” Pluto said. “When the church opens, I give Her the ribbon.” He cocked an eye up at the pearlescent sky. “My smart Lady. An’ looks alike She gonna give us another sunny day.”