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Authors: Konrath
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twinkling.
“I’ll tell you soon enough.”
CHAPTER 11
“So this was back in the ’80s, and crack was still pretty new to the streets, and me and Jackie catch an
officer down
squeal at this known crack house.”
Latham nudged me. “You two used to ride together?”
I took a large swig of Sam Adams and frowned.
“No one else would ride with Harry, so I got stuck with him.”
“That’s true. It’s because I was reckless.”
“It’s because you’re obnoxious. Every partner Harry ever had put in for a transfer.”
Harry shook his head. “Wrong. Steinwank got shot.”
“Steinwank shot himself in the foot to get away from you.”
“Whatever. Anyway, we pull up to this crack house, and sure enough, there’s a uniform down on the sidewalk right in front.”
I drank more beer and looked around the room. We’d wound up at the Cubby Bear, a Chicago bar and grill across the street from Wrigley Field, just a few blocks from my apartment. Harry’s face was a mess of BBQ sauce, and he gnawed at his two-dozenth buffalo wing while he spoke.
“So Jack gets out of the car, checks the guy. He’s out.”
“Was he shot?” Latham asked. He’d been humoring McGlade for the last half an hour, and I wished he’d quit it. Neither he nor Harry had gotten around to telling me the reasons they wanted to talk to me, and I was antsy, overdressed, and getting very bored with the cigarette smoke and loud noise and college kids bumping the back of my chair.
“That’s the thing. He wasn’t shot, but he’s got this big goose egg on his head. Won’t wake up—the guy’s even snoring. Anyway, Jackie uses this as probable cause for entering the crack house. She marches right inside, which was suicidal. Crack houses are like fortresses. I even remember a raid where Vice nabbed a rocket launcher. Those guys don’t play around.”
Latham looked at me with such frank admiration I almost blushed.
“They didn’t have a rocket launcher,” I said.
“Let me finish the story. So anyway, because I’m Jackie’s partner, I go in after her. Jackie’s in there, screaming and waving her gun, and scares the absolute shit out of them. They practically trip over themselves trying to surrender. We made eighteen felony arrests, all by ourselves, not a single shot fired. Even made the nightly news.”
“What about the cop?”
“That’s the best part. Turned out the cop was there to score some coke for his personal use, and he tripped on a shoelace and knocked himself out.”
Harry laughed, slapping his thigh and staining it with sauce.
“That’s a great story,” Latham said. He took a pull on his beer. “Jack really doesn’t talk about herself.”
“Do you know about the time she loaned out to Vice to go undercover as a hooker?”
“No. I’d like to hear that one.”
I didn’t mind hearing stories about my past so much as I minded Latham getting chummy with Harry McGlade, whom I couldn’t stand for a handful of reasons. This was a good time to change topics.
“So what’s the problem you’re having with Sergeant Pierce?” I asked Harry.
“Oh. I tagged his wife.”
“Tagged?”
“Slipped her the Harry Special, with extra sauce. She’s a fine woman—too good for him.” Harry licked his fingers and reached for the last wing.
“And you need me because . . . ?”
“Apparently—and Mrs. Pierce failed to mention this before we did the worm—her husband plays golf with the mayor.”
“And?”
“And now the City of Big Shoulders refuses to let me renew my PI license.”
I was about to express my amusement at this fortuitous news, when the
pop-pop
of handgun fire cut through the bar.
Harry and I, both instantly recognizing the sound, dropped to the floor. I yanked Latham down with me.
“You get a fix?” McGlade had his gun already out. A .44 Magnum, one of the biggest hand cannons on the market. Insert Freudian overcompensation joke here.
“Near the entrance,” I told him, thumbing open
“I’ll tell you soon enough.”
CHAPTER 11
“So this was back in the ’80s, and crack was still pretty new to the streets, and me and Jackie catch an
officer down
squeal at this known crack house.”
Latham nudged me. “You two used to ride together?”
I took a large swig of Sam Adams and frowned.
“No one else would ride with Harry, so I got stuck with him.”
“That’s true. It’s because I was reckless.”
“It’s because you’re obnoxious. Every partner Harry ever had put in for a transfer.”
Harry shook his head. “Wrong. Steinwank got shot.”
“Steinwank shot himself in the foot to get away from you.”
“Whatever. Anyway, we pull up to this crack house, and sure enough, there’s a uniform down on the sidewalk right in front.”
I drank more beer and looked around the room. We’d wound up at the Cubby Bear, a Chicago bar and grill across the street from Wrigley Field, just a few blocks from my apartment. Harry’s face was a mess of BBQ sauce, and he gnawed at his two-dozenth buffalo wing while he spoke.
“So Jack gets out of the car, checks the guy. He’s out.”
“Was he shot?” Latham asked. He’d been humoring McGlade for the last half an hour, and I wished he’d quit it. Neither he nor Harry had gotten around to telling me the reasons they wanted to talk to me, and I was antsy, overdressed, and getting very bored with the cigarette smoke and loud noise and college kids bumping the back of my chair.
“That’s the thing. He wasn’t shot, but he’s got this big goose egg on his head. Won’t wake up—the guy’s even snoring. Anyway, Jackie uses this as probable cause for entering the crack house. She marches right inside, which was suicidal. Crack houses are like fortresses. I even remember a raid where Vice nabbed a rocket launcher. Those guys don’t play around.”
Latham looked at me with such frank admiration I almost blushed.
“They didn’t have a rocket launcher,” I said.
“Let me finish the story. So anyway, because I’m Jackie’s partner, I go in after her. Jackie’s in there, screaming and waving her gun, and scares the absolute shit out of them. They practically trip over themselves trying to surrender. We made eighteen felony arrests, all by ourselves, not a single shot fired. Even made the nightly news.”
“What about the cop?”
“That’s the best part. Turned out the cop was there to score some coke for his personal use, and he tripped on a shoelace and knocked himself out.”
Harry laughed, slapping his thigh and staining it with sauce.
“That’s a great story,” Latham said. He took a pull on his beer. “Jack really doesn’t talk about herself.”
“Do you know about the time she loaned out to Vice to go undercover as a hooker?”
“No. I’d like to hear that one.”
I didn’t mind hearing stories about my past so much as I minded Latham getting chummy with Harry McGlade, whom I couldn’t stand for a handful of reasons. This was a good time to change topics.
“So what’s the problem you’re having with Sergeant Pierce?” I asked Harry.
“Oh. I tagged his wife.”
“Tagged?”
“Slipped her the Harry Special, with extra sauce. She’s a fine woman—too good for him.” Harry licked his fingers and reached for the last wing.
“And you need me because . . . ?”
“Apparently—and Mrs. Pierce failed to mention this before we did the worm—her husband plays golf with the mayor.”
“And?”
“And now the City of Big Shoulders refuses to let me renew my PI license.”
I was about to express my amusement at this fortuitous news, when the
pop-pop
of handgun fire cut through the bar.
Harry and I, both instantly recognizing the sound, dropped to the floor. I yanked Latham down with me.
“You get a fix?” McGlade had his gun already out. A .44 Magnum, one of the biggest hand cannons on the market. Insert Freudian overcompensation joke here.
“Near the entrance,” I told him, thumbing open
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