by Janey Mack
The priest intoned in a severe and caliginous voice, “Only those who have appropriately prepared themselves are to receive the Eucharist.”
Catholic guilt overtook my undercover cool.
Forgive me, Father, it’s been a couple years since my last confession and I’m here pretending to be James Bond.
The back of my neck grew hot and my throat started itching. “The guilts,” Da called it, that smidge of self-realization that rears its head in a high-pressure situation.
There I was, looking for hell in church.
I slipped out the side exit into the cool night air and cleared my throat again and again before realizing that for as glorious a building as the basilica was, it was definitely in a nasty part of town. I hot-footed it to the front of the church and entered quietly through the giant brass doors on the farthest east side.
Poster-sized photographs of Nawisko rested on easels. Several blue jackets and a couple cheap suits prowled the lobby like caged coyotes, talking in low, guttural voices. “I tole you there was no goddamn way Eddie V’d sell us out.”
“You say that like he’s some kinda saint. Like an intern and some chicken shit are supposed to make good for Nawisko?”
“It’s that asswipe Coles trying to sell us to the goddamn A-rabs.”
Grunts and nods followed that assertion. “Only shit Coles cares about is his reelection.”
Eyes averted, I turned my head slowly past the men, pressing the remote a nickel’s worth in succession.
Hank’s voice sounded in my head, “Get moving or get noticed.” I went to the heavy door of the nave and reached for the handle when the door shoved open, almost hitting me.
A fat, balding man with wispy reddish-brown hair came out, pressing a handkerchief to his eyes, blue nylon jacket straining across his bulk. “Our Keith. A goddamn betrayal, is what this is.”
A thick-fingered hand landed on the fat man’s shoulder. “Time for a drink, Pop.” Peterson.
I scooted behind the door, holding it open. He hadn’t seen me. Couldn’t have seen me. Ergh. The guy gave me the feeling I was wearing a shirt full of ants. The latent effect of his assault, I suppose. Please, please don’t let Narkinney be with him.
A steady stream of blue jackets filled the lobby, grousing and lamenting. My arm ached from holding the door. An usher came by, kicked down the doorstop for the stragglers, and began herding the mourners into the refectory for refreshments.
I said four Our Fathers and left.
“Toughy dickens, McGrane.” Niecy reset her AutoCITE. “You look like you spent the night in the ass-end of a dump truck.”
“Gee, thanks.” I glanced at myself in the Interceptor’s rearview. A little bleary-eyed from downloading and cropping more than three hundred photos from the memorial, but it wasn’t like I hadn’t showered for a week. “Lunchtime. Where to?” I asked, preemptively flipping on my hazards so I could pull a U. “Butch’s?”
“Frack, no.”
Well, that’s unfortunate. I’d planned on Niecy burning an hour or so at the gambling ticket counter while I sussed out IDs from Nawisko’s memorial.
“It’s uniform day at IE’s,” she said.
Whatever that meant. “Nifty.”
A twenty-five-minute traffic-logged and ticket-free trip landed us in front of Irwin Edwin’s Burger Joint. “Best butter burgers in Chicag-ie,” Niecy said. “Third Tuesday of every month is half-off for anyone in uniform. Which is why you’re gonna park around the block and not write one effin’ ticket.”
“Trying to garner a little public goodwill, are we? Does that actually work?”
“Cuss, yeah!” Niecy was out of the cart before I’d even popped the Interceptor into Park.
Super-duper. Shorting out our day for a bargain burger. Am I the only one who gives a rat’s ass about your benefits?
I ended up parking three blocks away. I pulled my copy of Thorne Clark’s case file and the bulging 24-Hour Walgreens photo envelope from under my seat.
My iPhone chirped.
Lee Sharpe.
I set my papers on Niecy’s seat. “Hello?”
“Finished scourging yet?”
“Ooh! Now there’s an opening line,” I said. “An archaic reference to self-flagellation doubling as a backhanded knock on my Catholic upbringing. That’s hot.”
Lee laughed. “I went to a significant amount of trouble looking that up, you know.”
“Yeah, typing’s tough without opposable thumbs.”
“That wasn’t much of a date last week. How ’bout we give it another go?”
I wanted to say yes. To want to play games and get that churning feeling of excitement and anticipation. But nothing came out.
“C’mon, Maisie. Lighten up. The world’s one big, happy place.”
“Lee—”
“How about I take you to that party? You know, the one you roped Cash into.”
Oh. My. God. Talk about karma biting me in the butt.
“This is a one-shot deal,” I warned.
“Sure,” he said. “And I promise to hold it against you when you change your mind.”
I stowed my iPhone in the cargo pocket and fastened the flap. I reached over for the case folder and photos. The hell with it. I want a hamburger.
I got out of the cart and jogged over to Irwin Edwin’s.
Burger basket and Dr Pepper in hand, I scanned the restaurant for Niecy. She was holding court from the middle of a long and crowded picnic table, looking like an ad for the United Colors of Uniforms.
The entire table ate with one hand while manipulating their smartphones. Niecy looked up from her screen long enough to point a shaking finger at me and say to no one in particular, “That’s my partner, McGrane.”
A guy wearing a T-Mobile oxford made eye contact. “Who’re you following?”
“Where?” I asked, squeezing in between two UPS employees.
“On Twitter. IowaHawkBlog, AdamBaldwin, ILoveScienceSex-ually, Ace of SpadesHQ, YeahNickSearcy, Dennis Miller? Who?”
“I don’t do Twi—”
“McGrane’s so old school”—Niecy cackled—“she thinks a phone is for talking.”
A handsome kid wearing an A-Agents pest control polo smacked his hands down on the table and stood up, fists raised in triumph. “James Woods is following me.”
T-Mobile’s mouth dropped open. “The actor? No way, Bob.”
“Check it.” He flashed his phone at the table. “I tweeted, Hated you in The Specialist. Love you on Twitter. Now he’s following me.”
“You snot-nosed mutha-lucka,” Niecy screeched. The table burst into laughter. I ate my butter burger, getting schooled in the ways of Twitter and Twitchy and loving every minute of it.
After lunch, we walked back to the cart, Niecy lecturing all the way. “You gotta understand, kid. The shizzle’s on the griddle. You gotta step up. Get informed. If it wasn’t for Leticia, I’d be—”
She skidded to a stop, grabbing my shirtsleeve. “What the frack?”
Chapter 22
Our Interceptor was thrashed. Tires slashed, bitch-cunt-whore-slut keyed into the paint, and every window, turn signal, headlight—even the flashers—were smashed.
The anger behind it was staggering.
Niecy sank down onto the curb and rooted in her purse for a cigarette. “Jeezy-creezy. Ain’t this a fuggin’ kick in the head.”
“Sucks to be us.” I took my cap off and ran a hand through my hair before putting it back on.
A gang of teenagers, maybe? They’re always pissed off.
I moved in for a closer look. The stink of sour milk and rotten fish filled my nose. An empty garbage can lay behind the cart. Safe to assume its contents were inside.
Aw shit. So were my case report and the photos.
I peeked in the broken window and sprang backwards, banging my head on the door frame and staggering over my feet.
Ow ow ow!
Pressing the back of my head with one hand, I wiped my eyes on my
sleeve.
It can’t be. It just can’t.
I shook my head hard and took another look. Trash covered the passenger side of the cart. The driver’s side was empty except for a single brass bullet with a flattened lead end. I didn’t need to pick it up to know it was a Buffalo Bore hardcast wadcutter.
Holy fuck.
I hit my radio. “Dispatch, this is car 13248. We have a non-emergency situation—”
“Hold up, McGrane.” Niecy took a drag. “They’re already here.”
I looked down the street. A blue-and-white approached at a snail’s pace, slowing to a crawl after they were good and sure we’d seen them.
Really? I mean, the only thing that could make it worse—oh wait, it can’t get any worse.
Tommy Narkinney hung out of the driver’s window, a giant, shit-eating grin on his face. “Maisie-Daisy McGrane. Here we go again.”
“Nice of you to drop by,” I said. “Funny how we didn’t even call it in yet.”
“Just passing through.” Peterson leaned forward and held up a half-eaten hamburger and a white bag with Irwin Edwin’s blue print on it. “Uniform day.”
A hundred bucks says you passed it on the way and came back around to bust our chops.
“What the fug are you so happy about? Smilin’ like a couple of effin’ Mongoloids.” Niecy flicked her cigarette at the squad car. “Get off your lard-butts and write a friggin’ report.”
Tommy’s smile warped into a sneer.
Still eating, Peterson got out of the car, paused to hike his pants up beneath his big gut, and moseyed over to the Interceptor. He jammed the rest of the hamburger into his mouth, crumpled up the white wrapper, and threw it on the ground. He wiped his hands on the belly of his shirt, laid a hand on the Interceptor’s roof, and stuck his thick, crew-cut head into the window.
“What’s this?” He reached his hand in the window.
“Don’t!” I shouted. “It’s a crime scene.” For chrissakes!
He held up the bullet between two fingers. “You wanna explain this?”
“It was evidence.”
“Fuckin’ wannabe.” He snorted and tossed it back into the window. “Tell ’em,” he said to Tommy as he got back in the car.
“Thing is, gals, this is a contracted city vehicle. You don’t own it. If Dhu West wants to file an insurance claim, they come down to the station and fill out a report.” He waited for Peterson to get in the car before starting it.
Tommy put his fingers to his mouth like he was blowing a kiss and flipped me off instead.
Well, that’s adorable.
I called Dispatch for a tow truck. Niecy called Leticia.
Leticia got there first and took a good, long look. “This some nasty, fucked-up shit, you know what I’m sayin’? We’re going to Butch’s. Now.”
“I’ll wait for the tow,” I said as Leticia loaded Niecy into her cart. “Meet you there.”
Before they hit the corner, I’d found a stick and started shifting the smelly debris on the passenger seat.
The case file and memorial photos were gone.
Flynn and I sat on the curb watching the evidence tech bag the bullet and take some pictures. I told him about my recon at Nawisko’s memorial service and the now missing photos and ME report. He hadn’t liked it, but he’d lump it.
“Rory and I got the Clark case back today,” he said. “In the BOC’s esteemed opinion, it’s a whut-whup.”
Wrong time, wrong place. “That’s good.”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t seem real surprised.”
“I’m not.” I rubbed my hands on my pants. “Thorne Clark was working for the Veterattis.”
“The Mob? And you would know this how?”
“Um . . . A little bird told me?”
“More like a hawk.” Flynn loosened his tie. “Anything else you want to share?”
I pulled out my iPhone, scrolled to the photo I’d snapped of the picture of Vi and Thorne and the other I’d taken of the phone number on the back. I handed it to him.
“How—”
“Don’t ask. Please.”
Flynn texted himself the photos. “What else did the hawk tell you?”
I wanted to tell him Nawisko wasn’t a sanctioned hit. Instead I said, “The Veterattis weren’t happy to lose Clark.”
“Jaysus.” Flynn ran a hand through his hair and stood up. “Stay the hell away from Bannon.” He tossed the phone in my lap. “I mean it, Snap.”
“McGrane!” Leticia shouted.
I might have missed them at the only inhabited table in the joint, drinking pitchers of frozen margaritas for a five spot. No salted rims or fancy glasses, just a salt shaker and beer mugs, each with an anemic slice of lime.
Argh, me pirating PEAs, there’ll be scurvy aplenty.
“What the fug took you so long?” Niecy said.
I sat down. “Waiting for the tow to show.”
Leticia slid me over a mug of tequila slush. I took a swig and blanched. The margarita was carrying enough citric acid to rust out a battleship.
Leticia popped a mini–corn dog in her mouth. “You hungry?” She pushed the red plastic basket of mini–corn dogs in my direction. “Eat up.”
Before I could grab one, Niecy shoved the basket back at Leticia. “What the fug you thinking? The kid won’t eat that crap.”
Leticia twisted in her chair and yelled at the empty bar. “Butch! Bring us some o’ them fried zucchinis and chicken tenders.” She turned to me, gave me a mini–head bob. “Healthy enough for you?”
“Perfect,” I said, weirdly hungry.
Butch stood up slowly from behind the bar. “Got it.” He went into the kitchen.
“What is he doing back there?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.
“Bad back. He be layin’ down, doing his chiropractical exercises,” Leticia said.
We drank for a while, not talking. I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject that the killer was on to me. “Niecy, maybe you ought to take a couple days off.”
“Who the hell are you? My effing wet nurse?”
No, I’m not. Because Jesus loves me. “Whoever did this to our cart wasn’t kidding.”
Niecy squawked and rapped her mug on the table. “Jeebus, the kid’s got her panties in a bunch cuz some Grade-A A-hole tagged our cart.
“Damn.” Leticia whistled. “Imagine if she’d come back to Sanchez’s cart.”
They chuckled. Niecy clarified, “Someone took a giant dump in the driver’s seat.”
“Bleah.” I grimaced. “What is wrong with the world?” My phone chirped. “McGrane,” I answered.
“Long time, no talk,” Ernesto said. “Where are you?”
“Uh, Butch’s Beer Garden.”
“I know that dump. Jeez, it’s not even three o’clock yet. You must be having one hell of a day.”
“Yeah, well . . . Our cart was vandalized today.”
“No shit?”
Leticia and Niecy stared at me with laser focus. “Yeah,” I said, staring back. “No shit.”
Niecy howled a scratchy coyote laugh. Leticia’s cheeks puffed out as she pressed her lips tight together, trying not to spit out a mouthful of mini–corn dog. She slapped her hand against the table, the other unable to let go of her mug of margarita.
“I’m heading over to Joe’s later,” I said. “See you then?”
“It’s a plan.”
I hung up as Butch came over with the food. The fried zucchini was appallingly delicious.
Twenty minutes later, he brought us over a round of four Dos Equis with limes.
“There’s only three of us,” Niecy said, “and we didn’t order no south-of-the-border crap.”
“He did.” Butch jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Chica.” Ernesto put his hands on my shoulders. He let his voice purposely carry across the table. “You going to introduce me to your bellas damas?”
“Mmmm-mmm-mmm,” Leticia said, letting her eyes take th
e slow boat up and down Ernesto’s fit form. “Who we got here?”
“Ernesto Padilla, at your service.”
Leticia fell away in a fake faint, hand at her breast, back arched. “Ain’t you just a fine piece of smexy. What you hanging out with McGrane for?”
“Cuz she’s got such good-looking friends.”
Niecy tittered while Leticia vogued him a scorching pout.
“I’m gonna steal her for a sec, okay?” He gestured toward the back room. “Chica?”
I got up and took two of the beers. Leticia’s hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. “You bring El Guapo back, you hear?” she hissed.
“Loud and clear.” I followed Ernesto into the back room. He bought thirty dollars’ worth of pull-tabs, dropped a five-dollar tip, and chose a small table in the corner. “Man, this place brings new meaning to the word dive.”
“Why are you here?”
He tossed me a couple of tabs, and picked up one, talking as he concentrated on tearing apart the fragile paper. “You didn’t sound like your normal happy self. And now that I see you, I gotta say, you don’t look like your normally happy self, either.”
I wedged the lime down into my beer and brought him up to speed on Flynn, the case, and the warning left on the seat of the cart. I tipped my head at the girls. “Think I should fill ’em in?”
Ernesto thought it over. “No. Flynn would’ve told you to tell them if he thought it was necessary.” He took a long swallow of Dos Equis. “You all right?”
“Pretty much lost in the jungle, swimming in quicksand.” I picked up a pull-tab and tore off the strips. Zip.
“Figure out Hank’s not Tarzan yet?”
“I never thought he was, Cheetah.”
“Keep your distance.” Ernesto punched me in the shoulder and picked up another tab. “How’s meter-maiding?”
“Pick up those ratty things and I’ll introduce you to two reasons to keep your day job.”
Niecy was the big winner. Two hundred dollars on one of Ernesto’s pull-tabs. She fell further in love with him when he refused to split the winnings. Leticia was in love with Ernesto for an entirely different reason. His “smexy” ass. Whatever that was.
