“Sir, you’d better come as well. We should take a look at that head.”
Tom sat down next to his partner as a second medic attended to his head wound. He kept his voice low, no longer sure if everything he said or did was being monitored, and said to Roy, “The Mustang was bugged.”
“When did they have time to do that? Case started only two days ago.”
“That’s the thing. It was hooked up to my car antenna. That’s why my radio doesn’t work.”
“So?”
“So, my radio hasn’t worked for about three months.”
Roy blinked. “Dammit, Tommy. What the hell have you gotten into?”
----
Chapter 9
Chicago
“Help a brother blow up his donut?”
Roy held out the inflatable seat cushion, shaped like a small inner tube. The hospital said he’d need to sit on that to avoid ripping his stitches.
“No problem. Thanks for letting us stay here. I didn’t want to go back to my place.”
Tom figured his apartment was bugged, and probably being watched as well. Roy’s place was clean; they’d swept it with the Foxhound earlier.
“Mi casa is your casa. Just don’t let him touch anything.” Roy stared at Bert and pointed. “Don’t touch a damn thing. One thing out of place, and I break your face.”
Bert folded his arms. “Why are you mad at me? I wasn’t the one who told you to jump out the window, ass first.”
“Both you and your damn fishing plugs are going out my window in about ten seconds.”
“Maybe I should stay in a hotel.”
“Bert, please. It would be safer if we stuck together.”
“I know when I’m not wanted.”
“You’re wanted. Roy, tell him.”
“Don’t want him using my john, neither.”
Tom walked his partner into the bedroom. Roy flopped onto the bed, face first. Tom debated helping him take off his pants, but decided to let them be. Leave the guy some dignity.
“Roy, I’m putting your pills here next to the bed.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
“You need anything, I’ll be in the other room.”
“Towels.”
“You need towels?”
“I don’t want him using my towels, neither.”
Tom turned off the light and quietly closed the door. Bert was in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge.
“At least he has good taste in beer. Russian Imperial Stout. Need one?”
“Yeah.”
Bert grabbed two and sat next to Tom at the breakfast bar. There was a carved wooden bottle opener in the shape of a naked African goddess on the table. Bert opened both beers and handed one to Tom.
The cop sipped it—sweet and malty, with a higher alcohol content than its English counterpart.
Bert took a swig from the bottle and looked around the apartment.
There was a definite tribal theme here: voodoo masks on the walls, a tiger print rug, a black leather couch with a leopard throw on the back.
The large rack of LPs, though practically antiques themselves, seemed too contemporary.
“Look, cut Roy a little slack. He’s a good guy. He doesn’t make friends too easily.”
“That’s surprising. He’s such a warm and cuddly fellow. What’s his story?”
“Roy grew up in Cabrini Green. One of the worst housing projects in Chicago, back then. Single mother, two younger brothers. Roy was the man of the family almost as soon as he could walk. But it was tough. He lost one brother to gangs, the other one to drugs. Took it real hard.”
“I get it. He keeps people at a distance.” Bert drank from his bottle. “I had an older brother, passed away when I was five. He wasn’t adopted. I think my father wishes it was me instead of him that died.
How about you? Brothers or sisters?”
“Just me.”
“Lonely growing up?”
“Not really.”
“That’s because you never knew what you were missing. Never having something is different than having something and losing it.”
Tom took another sip of stout and considered Bert’s words. They made sense. He’d dated Donna for three years, and had even considered asking her to marry him. When she left, Tom felt like she took a
Tom sat down next to his partner as a second medic attended to his head wound. He kept his voice low, no longer sure if everything he said or did was being monitored, and said to Roy, “The Mustang was bugged.”
“When did they have time to do that? Case started only two days ago.”
“That’s the thing. It was hooked up to my car antenna. That’s why my radio doesn’t work.”
“So?”
“So, my radio hasn’t worked for about three months.”
Roy blinked. “Dammit, Tommy. What the hell have you gotten into?”
----
Chapter 9
Chicago
“Help a brother blow up his donut?”
Roy held out the inflatable seat cushion, shaped like a small inner tube. The hospital said he’d need to sit on that to avoid ripping his stitches.
“No problem. Thanks for letting us stay here. I didn’t want to go back to my place.”
Tom figured his apartment was bugged, and probably being watched as well. Roy’s place was clean; they’d swept it with the Foxhound earlier.
“Mi casa is your casa. Just don’t let him touch anything.” Roy stared at Bert and pointed. “Don’t touch a damn thing. One thing out of place, and I break your face.”
Bert folded his arms. “Why are you mad at me? I wasn’t the one who told you to jump out the window, ass first.”
“Both you and your damn fishing plugs are going out my window in about ten seconds.”
“Maybe I should stay in a hotel.”
“Bert, please. It would be safer if we stuck together.”
“I know when I’m not wanted.”
“You’re wanted. Roy, tell him.”
“Don’t want him using my john, neither.”
Tom walked his partner into the bedroom. Roy flopped onto the bed, face first. Tom debated helping him take off his pants, but decided to let them be. Leave the guy some dignity.
“Roy, I’m putting your pills here next to the bed.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
“You need anything, I’ll be in the other room.”
“Towels.”
“You need towels?”
“I don’t want him using my towels, neither.”
Tom turned off the light and quietly closed the door. Bert was in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge.
“At least he has good taste in beer. Russian Imperial Stout. Need one?”
“Yeah.”
Bert grabbed two and sat next to Tom at the breakfast bar. There was a carved wooden bottle opener in the shape of a naked African goddess on the table. Bert opened both beers and handed one to Tom.
The cop sipped it—sweet and malty, with a higher alcohol content than its English counterpart.
Bert took a swig from the bottle and looked around the apartment.
There was a definite tribal theme here: voodoo masks on the walls, a tiger print rug, a black leather couch with a leopard throw on the back.
The large rack of LPs, though practically antiques themselves, seemed too contemporary.
“Look, cut Roy a little slack. He’s a good guy. He doesn’t make friends too easily.”
“That’s surprising. He’s such a warm and cuddly fellow. What’s his story?”
“Roy grew up in Cabrini Green. One of the worst housing projects in Chicago, back then. Single mother, two younger brothers. Roy was the man of the family almost as soon as he could walk. But it was tough. He lost one brother to gangs, the other one to drugs. Took it real hard.”
“I get it. He keeps people at a distance.” Bert drank from his bottle. “I had an older brother, passed away when I was five. He wasn’t adopted. I think my father wishes it was me instead of him that died.
How about you? Brothers or sisters?”
“Just me.”
“Lonely growing up?”
“Not really.”
“That’s because you never knew what you were missing. Never having something is different than having something and losing it.”
Tom took another sip of stout and considered Bert’s words. They made sense. He’d dated Donna for three years, and had even considered asking her to marry him. When she left, Tom felt like she took a
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