“What do you see me doing?”
He handed me the photo. “You give Monroe news about times, dates, and places that Johnson has been running operations outside the group and pocketing the money. You give him the specific amounts he’s ripped off. You tell Monroe you’ve come across the information in your private investigations into the group. I give you the list and the evidence. Johnson will have no alibi. We know where he was at the times and we’ve set up dummy bank accounts in his name. The money will be there when Monroe checks for it. Monroe will make a move on Johnson. Johnson will fight it. My guess is Johnson will end up dead on the street and the others will run and hide their heads instead of getting behind Monroe. If not, we’ll play man against man till they’re so busy dancing they won’t have time for stealing or pimping.”
“Seems to me a lot riskier than arresting them.”
“If you listen to the superintendent and mayor, nothing’s riskier than arresting them. For once, I agree with them. Way too much bad publicity. This is the kind of thing that could define the department and the city for years.” He stared at me again. “This is straightforward undercover work but a cop can’t do it. The guys in the group would be too suspicious, especially right now. But you-they’ll know you’re independent, and after the Southshore shootings they’ll think you’re gutsy enough to make this kind of move.” He said it with a smile but I knew better.
“I’m already tied to the deaths of two of them,” I said. “Why would they want to talk to me?”
“Trust me, they want to talk. You’re the only one who saw them at Southshore. They need to find out what you know. My guess is they’ll pick you up off the street for a conversation and you can make your case for partnering with them. If not, you get in touch with them yourself, tell them you’ve dug them up as part of your investigation and you’re interested in making a deal. Your job as a detective is gone, you need an income, you’re impressed by the work they do, etcetera.”
“They’ll kill me.”
“Probably not. They could use a guy like you.”
“I walk in, disasters happen.”
He nodded. “It’s a talent.”
“What does Detective Chroler think about this?” I asked.
“She’s signed on,” he said. “You’ll never hear from her again.” He gave me a long stare. “What do you think?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Your life back. Chroler takes her thumb off the top of your head. The department leaves you alone. You get to live on your own terms again.”
If I pulled off the job, I would have a chance at redeeming myself. The Department of Professional Regulation might even let me keep my detective’s license. “I think I’ll go fishing,” I said.
He looked at me long again, then smiled. “That’s what I would do if I were you.”
I smiled too. “No, you wouldn’t. You could be lounging on a beach right now, expenses paid by the city. You could milk your injury for six months or a year before coming back, no questions asked. But you’re working twelve-hour days if I know you, worrying Eileen because you won’t take it easy.”
We smiled at each other for awhile, eyes on each other’s eyes, neither of us blinking.
Then I said, “Did you tell a Tribune reporter I’m dirty?”
He blinked. “Never.”
I nodded, waited for him to blink again. He didn’t. I said, “You want to bring Eileen to my house for dinner?”
He seemed to pull into himself. He said, “When this is over, okay?”
SIX
I TOLD BILL I would find my own way home.
A five-minute walk from the front of the station would take me to the Velvet Lounge on Cermak Road, shouldered between a Vietnamese manicure business and Baba’s Restaurant, the only place in the city advertising FAMOUS STEAK & LEMONADE. You would never guess from the clean redbrick building housing the Velvet Lounge that inside you could hear the raunchiest jazz in Chicago. The music wouldn’t start for another two hours. But the Velvet Lounge also poured a tall shot. That was enough for me.
When I left the station a white Honda SUV with tinted windows idled at the curb. A shiver ran down my back. I fought it off. Chicago had to have thousands of white Honda SUVs. I was crazy to think this was the same one that had tailed me when I got out of jail.
I crossed the street, turned south, walked toward Cermak. Two men got out of the SUV and followed me on the other side. One wore a camouflage jacket, the other black. The guy in black had short, receding dark hair. The guy in camouflage wore a gray wool skullcap, though I figured he had hair that matched the other guy’s.
I sped up.
They sped up.
I could run but I figured they could run faster.
The evening wind came from the south. If you looked for its tail, maybe you would find it in a quiet Florida fishing village. But it stung cold. The passing headlights were cold. On November evenings like this in Chicago everything was cold.
I kept to the east side of the street, passing businesses that looked like they’d been dying since the 1970s-Blue Star Auto Store, Super Deal Food & Liquor, Giant Slice Pizza. The two men stayed across the street, where developers had knocked down old buildings and built gated condos and landscaped high-rises. The one in the black coat talked on a cell phone.
At the corner of Cermak, I went left and they trotted across the street and followed me under the El tracks. At Wabash, a plastic sign advertising MUFFLERS 4 LESS banged in the wind. I crossed, passed a place that sold POLLO AL CARBON through an outside walk-up window, and slipped into the Velvet Lounge.
If the guys from the SUV wanted to join me for a drink, I would buy them a round. If they wanted to shoot me, there wasn’t a lot I could do to stop them.
At a quarter to seven on a cold November evening, the Velvet Lounge was almost empty. A recording of Coleman Hawkins played on the stereo. The room smelled like spilled liquor. The paneling on the walls was blond pressboard and the posters of jazz greats were framed in plastic, but the bar top was heavy oak covered with polished glass. Behind it, liquor bottles stood in an art deco display. The place put its money where it mattered.
As I sat on a stool, the door swung open and the men from the SUV came in. They sat at a table facing me. A pistol showed on the hip of the guy in black, and, if you bothered to look, the camouflage jacket bulged over a shoulder holster.
The bartender, a brown-skinned man in jeans and a black guayabera shirt, brought me a shot of Early Times and a glass of water. A waitress with blond, stringy hair took care of the men at the table. She had a low-cut blouse and leaned over their table like she expected them to tuck ten-dollar bills inside, but they kept their eyes on me.
When we had our drinks, I considered leaving mine on the bar, going to the men’s room, slipping through a window, and catching a taxi for the airport. I had enough cash for cab fare and a credit card would take me the rest of the way.
I stood with my whiskey and brought it to the table where the men were sitting. I sat down across from them. They didn’t seem surprised by my company.
I drank the shot, let its burn warm my throat and stomach, felt the heat rise to my head. “Okay,” I said. “What now?”
The man in black said, “We’re worried about you, Joe.”
“My ex-wife’s worried about me too. Maybe we could start a club. Like a fan club but with hand wringing.”
He shook his head. “Don’t be a smart-ass. It doesn’t work for you.”
“I’m sitting at a table with two guys who put a bullet in the rear panel of my car, and I have the feeling these guys are cops who undoubtedly can explain why the bullet is in my car in a way that doesn’t involve them personally. Basically I’m screwed if you want me to be. So being a smart-ass is all I’ve got.”