“Damn,” Ed said. His voice echoed off the curving concrete.
The feeding rat flinched and hissed. Dozens of other answering hisses, as if they were tuned to the same radio static, erupted from the shadows all around them.
“Fuck me,” Sam said, backing to the lights of the station. Ed splashed the light around, revealing square holes regularly spaced along both walls. These black tunnels were full of eyes. The closest rat squealed, whether in fury or terror Sam couldn’t tell, and scuttled forward. Qween kicked at it and they scrambled back to the ladder. Ed and Sam pushed Qween up ahead of them, then pulled themselves over the ledge. They moved quickly into the light and stood for a moment, catching their breath, watching the edge for rats.
“Don’t know about you, but I’ve seen enough,” Sam said.
They decided a drink was necessary. After collecting Qween’s cart, they found a quiet booth in the back of Monk’s Pub a few blocks away. While the regulars laughed and shouted at the bar, plugging quarters into the jukebox, Ed, Sam, and Qween didn’t talk. They concentrated on their shots of Jameson and slowly swirled the shot glasses in the condensation on the table that had collected from their beers.
Sam got tired of waiting for the waiter and went up to the bar for another round. The bartender poured the shots and glanced over at their table. “I appreciate the business, but just so you know, the only reason she’s allowed in here is ’cause she’s with you.”
“Fucking relax,” Sam said. “You oughta worry about me instead. Tell you what. Give me six shots.”
The bartender shrugged and didn’t look at Sam again.
Sam popped another stick of nicotine gum and chewed on it ferociously. Some dipshit on the TV caught his eye. The evening news, interviewing some “witness” at City Hall. “Hey, turn that up,” he said.
The bartender found the remote, and increased the volume.
“—crazy, you know. I heard people saying it was some kind of political statement, but I don’t know.” This was from the witness. They cut back to a perky reporter, wearing an elaborate outfit and about a gallon of hairspray to combat the humidity. The shot was live, outside of City Hall. “Some are calling it a sick joke, some are calling it a political prank that got out of control, and some are even saying it is part of some bizarre performance art piece.”
The shot cut back to a prerecorded piece, shot inside City Hall. Tonya, looking cool and unflappable, smiled compassionately. “It’s true that we experienced an unfortunate incident earlier today, yes. However, the important thing to remember here is that a mentally disturbed individual will be getting the help they need at this time.”
Back to the reporter. “This is Cecilia Palmers, live from City Hall. Back to you, Barbara and Rob.”
The smug, smiling face of a male anchor filled the screen. “Thanks, Cecilia. And now over to Tad Schilling, in Weather Center One. So tell me Tad, when are we going to get a break with this heat?”
Sam paid and borrowed a tray. He put all the shot glasses on it and carried it back to their table. “Just saw the news. They’re brushing it under the rug as we speak. By tomorrow, it’ll be forgotten.” He passed out the first three shots and said, “Salute.”
They downed the shots and sat in silence a while longer.
“So what now?” Ed asked. “We go back to Arturo. We tell him there’s something going on with the rats. Some kind of disease. Shit. I can see the look on his face right now.”
“No,” Sam said. “We call the TV stations. Tell them what’s going on. Get some footage of those dead rats.”
“And you think they care about dead rats?” Ed asked.
“Shit. They don’t care about folks killing each other, as long as it stays on the South or West sides. What makes you think they gonna care about dead rats?”
“We need to pray to the good Lord for some guidance,” Qween said.
Ed and Sam pretended they hadn’t heard her suggestion.
Qween said, with a little more conviction, “I said, we need to pray.”
“If that helps,” Sam said, “go on ahead and pray.”
“What’s your religion, Mr. Sam Johnson?” Qween asked.
“I don’t think that has any bearing on this case,” Sam said.
“I think it has a whole lot to do with this case,” Qween said. “Answer the question. If you want any more help from me, answer the question.”
Sam took his second shot. “Okay. My folks were Jewish. I grew up in Skokie. Reform, I guess you’d say.”
“Be straight. You Jews, you don’t believe in the Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Not in the way you believe, no.”
“Okay, then. I ain’t hold that against you.”
“Good to hear it.”
“But you ain’t got any bearing on this, so shut the fuck up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Edward Jones. What’s your story? Don’t break my heart. Tell me you’re a Baptist from Down South. Please, boy. Please.”
“Ma’am. Don’t take this personally.” Ed picked up his shot glass and held it, waiting until Qween held hers and they clinked the glass together. “I don’t believe in God.” He knocked his shot back. “Sorry. Your Bible, it’s just myths and legends. No different from any other culture on Earth.”
She surprised them and gave Ed a grin that displayed how few teeth she had left. “Don’t you worry. Jesus Christ doesn’t judge. He understands.” Qween knocked back the Jameson, slammed the shot glass upside down on the wood. “You need to get yourself to church. Make sure it’s Baptist. None of that Pentecostal foolishness. Shit, when I want to speak in tongues, I just drink Sambuca. Now, excuse me.” She wriggled her bulk out of the booth. “All this quality whiskey goes right through me. I expect at least three more on the table when I get back.”
When his cell phone rang, Lee was grateful for the interruption. He’d been sitting in a back room at a shithole of an Italian restaurant on the Near North Side and his throat hurt from all the laughing he was having to fake at all the stupid jokes. They kept shoving sausage and pasta on his plate; it wasn’t like he could refuse to eat, so training tomorrow was going to be brutal. And it didn’t help that he was sweating his balls off. Christ, what was it about these old fucking goombah types that they needed to keep the heat going in August?
Still, he was careful. The last goddamn thing he needed was for one of them to suspect he wasn’t being sincere when he laughed. They’d turn on him like starving dogs. Forget his career. He’d be lucky not to end up as another “suicide” in the river.
Even though some of the older men frowned when his phone went off, he checked the number, saw that it was his uncle, and apologized profusely, saying, “It’s Uncle Phil.” The old men understood the importance of family, more specifically, the importance of getting a call from an elder in the business. Lee excused himself and slipped into the alley.
“What the fuck, Phil? These guys, they take it personally if you answer a phone in their presence.”
“I know. I wouldn’t have called, but we got bigger problems. You see the news? Hear about the rat loose in City Hall?”
“If this is your idea of an emergency, then I’m gonna have these guys cut your nuts off.”
“Watch your mouth and listen close. Somebody’s reaching out to you, and they’ve got enough juice to know to contact me first.”
“So what?”
“Somebody from the CDC wants the names of the two employees that were in charge of catching the rat.”
Lee’s mind spun. “What the . . . why the fuck?”
“I have no idea. Only something big, bigger than us, is here, and they are serious.
“You need to find out who the fuck was downtown today and give them up quick. These people, they aren’t fucking around. They got a hard-on for this rat and I don’t want to know why.”