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dollar store. A styrofoam fast-food carton rafted down the gutter. I closed the curtain.
    â€œZodiac,” Harry said. “Eight stars. Isn’t there a constellation or something—”
    â€œThe Pleiedes,” I said. “Seven stars, seven sisters.”
    â€œWhy couldn’t they have been the eight rats?” Harry produced another ball of paper and rolled it to the center. I saw gator bootsmoving to the table and looked up to see Bill Cantwell, a ranking detective in second district. Cantwell was a lanky forty-fiveish former Texan who expressed his birthright through stovepipe jeans, ornate shirts, and tipped-forward Stetsons. Cantwell noticed my rat sketch, made a frame with his fingers, and pretended to study Harry. “That’s good, Carson,” he deadpanned. “A touch more mustache and you’d have him dead-on.”
    â€œAnother Steinberg,” Harry moaned.
    â€œSeinfeld,” I corrected. Harry had one TV, a ten-inch black and white. He was a music man.
    â€œI hear y’all might be handling this Nelson thing under Piss-it rules,” Cantwell said, propping a silver-pointed boot on a chair beside Harry. “Tell me again what Piss-it stands for, Harry. I ain’t looking through that damn manual, thing weighs ten pounds.”
    â€œPsychopathological and Sociopathological Investigative Team, Bill,” Harry said. “Piss-it’s a lot easier to remember.”
    Tomorrow Harry and I were meeting second district’s homicide dicks about canvassing Nelson’s neighborhood and checking the haunts he favored. They were, in fact, already doing it, since the killing had occurred in their territory. But under PSIT procedures information had to be routed past Harry and me, since we were the sole members of the team.
    Cantwell nodded slowly. “I guess it makes sense Piss-it handles things. The case’s got crazy writ all over it, a chopped-off head and writing by the peter. There’ll be some grumbling from the guys, it’ll mean extra paperwork. But we’ll be fine with it, even if Squill ain’t.”
    â€œWhat you mean, Bill?” Harry said. “Squill ain’t?”
    â€œHe was in this afternoon making noises, y’know. Like we didn’t have to be real cooperative if we didn’t want.” Cantwell scratched at an incisor and flicked something unwanted to the floor. “I got the notion ol’ Captain Squill ain’t real fond of Piss-it.”
    Harry raised an eyebrow.
    â€œDon’t worry, Harry; we’ll be going by Piss-it procedures. We’re in till we hear otherwise.”
    Cantwell rapped the table with his knuckles and drifted back tohis group. I looked at Harry. “Why is Squill sticking his finger in our eyes?”
    Harry shrugged. “It’s Squill. We have eyes and he has fingers.”
    When there was more crumpled paper than room to work, we called it a night, heading outside as Burlew was coming in, his gray raincoat a sodden tent. Harry was already on the street and Burlew and I passed in the narrow vestibule between outside and inside doors. I nodded and gave him room, but he took a sidestep stumble and shouldered me into the wall. I turned to see if he was drunk, but he’d already passed into Flanagan’s, chewing his wad of paper, a tight smile at the edges of his doll-baby mouth.
    Â 
    The next morning we were summoned to Squill’s office. He was on the phone and ignored us. We sat in hard chairs before his uncluttered desk and studied his ego wall. If any political or law-enforcement celebrity had passed within three states, Squill’d been there with hand out and teeth shining. After five minutes of listening and grunting, Squill hung up his phone and spun his chair to look out the window, his back to our faces.
    â€œTell me about the Nelson case,” he commanded the sky.
    â€œIndeterminate,” I said. “Yesterday we talked with his aunt,