Ed ignored this. “That boy is gonna be in a big hurt if they drop him off on the Latin Kings’ turf.” The guy was known on the streets as Ducey and known to the Justice Department as Darryl Adams. He’d grown up in the Blackstones, and now was one of the top lieutenants. Ed and Sam didn’t give a damn about him, though. They were just keeping an eye on him on the off chance they might spot a certain Javier Delgado.

Delgado was wanted in connection with a suspicious murder-suicide in a crack house in Northern Indiana. Word was that Delgado was hiding out with family in Detroit, but Ed and Sam knew that Delgado and Ducey’s sister had a three-year-old son together, so it was worth a shot. Commendations from both the narcotics squad and the homicide division certainly wouldn’t hurt when they went looking for consulting gigs after retirement.

But now Ducey was about to be kicked into a rival gang’s territory, a wolf tossed to the lions. The locals called it a “bitch drop,” as in you got dropped off and then ran like a bitch. Ed and Sam didn’t particularly give a rat’s ass about a gangbanger like Ducey, but it was the principle of the thing.

Ed jumped into traffic on Garfield, cutting into traffic in a storm of horns and brake lights. He pulled up next to the cruiser and Sam locked eyes with the cop driving. Sam held up his badge and pointed to the curb.

The driver nodded and gave a mock salute. He didn’t pull over to the side of Garfield. Instead, he turned the next corner and parked on a quiet side street, away from the eyes of passing cars.

“Let me do the talking,” Sam said.

“Don’t piss ’em off.”

“Let me do the talking.”

Ed eased to a stop behind the cruiser. The patrolmen didn’t wait in the car like citizens. Instead, they met Ed and Sam in the wash of headlights in front of the Crown Vic.

“What can we do to help you out, detectives?” the driver asked with a fawning sincerity that was almost real enough to mask his irritation.

“Officer . . . Falwell, is it?” Sam asked.

“Yes, sir. Again, how can we help you, Detective . . . ?”

“I’m Detective Tackleberry. This is Detective Hightower.” Sam hoped the patrolmen were too young to have bothered watching the movie Police Academy. “We’re actually working with IA.” Sam paused for dramatic emphasis, as if he was about to tell someone a loved one had been killed in the line of duty. “Officer Falwell, we need to speak with you in private, I’m afraid.”

Officer Falwell and his partner exchanged glances. “Look, whatever you need to tell me, you can tell me in front of my partner.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to glance at Ed. Ed shrugged. Sam assumed a concerned expression. “Son, I hate to have to tell you this. It’s why we flagged you down, didn’t want to use the radio.” He folded his arms, looked at the ground. “Somebody in IA has a real hard-on for you. Whatever you did, you pissed somebody off. Big time.” He took a deep breath. “Apparently, they’ve got you targeted as an officer that picks men up on minor drug charges, then forces them to perform oral sex on you in exchange for kicking them loose.”

Officer Falwell’s mouth opened and snapped shut. Rage crawled over his face.

“That’s a fucking lie,” his partner shouted, and took a step forward.

Sam raised his hands. “Don’t shoot me. I’m just the messenger. Why do you think we’re talking to you out here?”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Officer Falwell managed to croak.

“I know. I know.” Sam nodded sympathetically. “That’s department politics for you. How long have you been on the force? Year? Two years?”

“Five.”

“Then this shouldn’t be any surprise. You pissed on somebody’s shoes. From here on, assume somebody’s got their eye on you. Like him.” Sam indicated Ducey, still in the back seat of the cruiser. “He legit, or are you using him for something else?”

“This is bullshit,” the partner said. “Bullshit.” He looked like he wanted to punch something. Sam felt sorry for whoever got in the officer’s way tonight.

Officer Falwell said, “I’m gonna fucking find who did this. Gonna fucking put their head through a fucking wall.” He went to the back of the cruiser, yanked the door open, and dragged Ducey out. He unlocked the cuffs and said, “Get the fuck out of here. I see you again, you’re fucking dead.”

Ducey didn’t need to be told twice. He’d been around enough to know that whatever was going down didn’t involve him, and hauled ass toward Garfield.

Officer Falwell slammed the cruiser’s back door and moved back around to the driver’s side.

“You’re welcome,” Sam said.

“Fuck you,” Officer Falwell shouted back, got in, and took off.

“You’d think he’d show a bit more gratitude,” Ed said.

They found Ducey a few minutes later, moving quickly along the south side of Garfield. Ed pulled over and Sam stuck his arm out of the window and waved him closer.

It was clear Ducey wanted nothing to do with the Crown Vic, but he finally shook his head and sidled up to the car, not looking at the detectives. He kept his eyes flicking up and down the street instead.

“The fuck y’all want now?”

“Goddamn. Nobody’s appreciating anything tonight,” Sam told Ed. He looked back up at Ducey. “You know exactly what those boys were planning. My partner and I, we just spared you one hell of an ass-whupping or worse. You’re lucky to be walking around right now.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatcha want?”

“Take a good look at us, kid. Memorize our faces. See, you owe us. Big time. And here’s the thing. Nobody knows. Not your gangbanging buddies, not those cops back there. Nobody. Not yet anyway. You piss me off, everybody on the South Side is gonna know you’re a snitch. Here’s my card.”

Ducey took the card. He looked like he wanted to spit on it and drop it in the gutter, but he slipped it into his jeans. “Yeah, I’m shakin’. Cut the bullshit. Whatcha want?”

“Looking for Javier Delgado. You know why. If he’s around, you let me know. I find out he’s in town and I haven’t heard from you, I know cops a thousand times worse than those two fuckheads back there.”

Tommy and Don were discussing an upcoming three game series with the hated Twinkies with a couple of electricians, also employed by Streets and Sans. Both the Sox and the Cubs were off to shaky starts, but hey, it was early. Plenty of time left before the do-or-die days of September.

On TV over the bar, the anchor was wrapping up their lead story, “More details about this tragic death as they become available. In other news, Streets and Sanitation Commissioner Lee Shea today answered some tough questions about the rat population. Cecilia Palmers was on the scene at City Hall earlier today.” The camera cut away to a shot of the east side of City Hall. Lee always conducted press conferences on the county side in the morning, because the light was better.

One of the Streets and Sans guys pointed at the TV. “Our fearless leader.”

Don and Tommy turned to watch the news.

Lee was out in front of City Hall again, wearing his earnest, concerned expression. “I can assure you that everyone in my department is doing their absolute best with their limited resources. It is unfortunate that the rest of City Hall does not share my concern for the well-being of the citizens of Chicago. Nevertheless, you have my unwavering promise that Streets and Sans is doing everything within its power to control the population of vermin. I can only ask that if anyone is concerned about pests in their neighborhoods, to not only call us, but to call their aldermen as well, and ask them why it was decided that Streets and Sans would not receive sufficient funds to do this job properly.”

CHAPTER 16