Sam said, “All we need is to talk to you about the spacemen.” He was having a ball being the good cop for a change.
One of the muscleheads said in a muffled voice, “We didn’t do nothing.”
Ed said, “Shut the fuck up, ’less you got something constructive to say.”
“All I’m sayin’ is that we didn’t do nothin’.”
“Last warning,” Ed said.
“Hey, man, what’s your problem?” The musclehead was getting indignant. “You need to talk to your supervisor. This here, we’re protected, you understand what I’m saying?”
Ed nodded. “I understand you didn’t listen.” He gave the guy a swift kick in the stomach. The air rushed out of the guy’s lungs in a stunned hushing sound, and he made a strangled whining noise as struggled to take another breath. “Dumbass,” Ed said. “Who’s fucking next?”
Sam said, “Maybe violence isn’t the answer here.” He turned his attention back to the two men by the desks. “You seem like reasonable men. Care to enlighten my partner and me? Tell us about the spacemen and we’re gone.”
The two men wouldn’t look up. They didn’t say anything.
Sam said, “No? Okay then.” He went around the desks, opened a few drawers at random until he found what he was looking for. A simple BIC lighter. He flicked it once, made sure it worked. He grabbed a stack of hundred-dollar bills off the desk, folded one over, and lit it on fire.
“You can’t do that,” one of the men said.
“I’m not doing anything,” Sam said, holding on to the burning bill until the flames were licking his thumb and forefinger. He dropped it and ground the ashes into the expensive carpet. Sam lit two more bills. “File a complaint. Take me to court. Go ahead, prove this money ever existed.” He lit the entire stack, burning at least four or five thousand dollars. “You can explain to your boss why you’re a little short today.” He grabbed another fistful of cash.
“Fine, fine, okay? Just stop,” one of the accountants said, patting the air in front of him like he was trying to get a bus to slow down. “It’s got nothing to do with us.”
Sam flicked his gaze to the groaning man on the floor. “That’s what he said too.”
“I just mean, all we do is call ’em if we got somebody in here that fits the description.”
“And what would that description be?”
“Somebody looking like they going cold turkey. Shaking. Itching. Sleeping and won’t wake up. Shit like that.”
“Then what?”
“Sometimes they come here. The spacemen. Guys in rubber suits and masks. They take ’em away.”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes we take ’em ourselves. Sometimes they call us. When they want somebody.”
“Somebody.”
“Yeah, somebody. Those times, it don’t matter. They just want somebody.”
“Somebody that nobody’ll miss,” Ed chimed in.
The guy shrugged. “I guess so, yeah. We don’t ask questions.”
Before Ed could lose his temper again, Sam asked, “Where do you take ’em?” He was willing to bet all the money on the desk that the guy was going to say, “Cook County General.”
But the guy said, “Loading dock on Lower Wacker. Between Monroe and Adams.”
Sam popped more nicotine gum. Chewed slowly. It made sense. If they were dropping people off, whoever was in charge of the hospital wouldn’t want anyone to see it. It seemed very likely that there was another way inside, not just the emergency entrance. Lower Wacker had loading docks that opened to Cook County General.
They heard a scream.
“Where’s Qween?” Ed asked.
CHAPTER 44
8:46 PM
August 13
Phil didn’t call for a long time. Kimmy had put Grace to bed earlier, and had retreated to the bathroom to sulk in a bath she kept refilling with hot water, over and over, when it grew too cool.
Lee didn’t give a damn. She could drown in there as far as he was concerned. He’d dug a bottle of cheap gin out of the back of his kitchen pantry somebody had left during his housewarming party and sat in front of the windows, staring at the Chicago skyline. The only light came from the television, but the sound was muted, so all Lee could hear was the hum of the air-conditioning and the occasional dull rush of hot water in the bathtub.
His uncle’s voice was cold. “I told you this was going to come back and bite you in the ass.”
Lee was drunk, but knew he’d better at least act like he was sorry. Arguing would just make things worse. And drunk or not, he needed his uncle’s help. “My apologies,” he mumbled.
His uncle sighed. “I’ve been up for the past three fucking days, trying to fix your mistakes. I’m tired and I’m pissed. You’re lucky you’re my nephew, or I’d have some fellas I know come over and teach you a fucking lesson. Give you a chance to try wiping your ass with a fucking hook.”
Lee stayed quiet, giving his Phil a chance to vent.
“As it is, there’s no goddamn point. The big boys are scared. They’re looking for a scapegoat. They’re kicking around a few names, but I gotta tell you, yours is at the top of the list.”
Lee shot to his feet. “So why’d you call then? Just to rip me a new asshole? Huh? What, make yourself feel better?”
“I called because I feel responsible, and to let you know that by this time tomorrow night, it’ll be all over. All your friends are distancing themselves from you. Me included. Got no choice. You’re goddamn toxic and nobody, but nobody, is going to want to be associated with you. I called to give you the name of a good lawyer. Forget about using the usual firm. No fucking way they’re going near this shit.”
“You can take your lawyer and shove him up your ass. I’m gonna ride this out and fucking bury you.” Lee hung up. For several long seconds, he glared at his reflection in the windows. The rage built, vibrating up through his feet, his legs, his guts. He ground his teeth together. Luckily, the bathroom was silent. So instead of kicking the door down and dragging Kimmy out by her hair, he whipped his phone at the TV. It bounced off with a small popping noise, leaving a spiderweb of cracks the size of a coaster.
When Ed and Sam had gone into the office, Qween slipped back past the church and into the dormitory, her sneakers silent on the plush carpeting. The mission was a fixture in the neighborhood; it had been around for years. Everybody knew about the homeless men carrying drug money. Few, though, knew about the homeless women and sometimes young men who were enticed with promises of a hot meal, a warm place to sleep, and of course, eternal salvation and taken downstairs, given their own rooms, and told to wait patiently for a select group of clientele, who, as it turned out, liked to inflict a little damage with their love.
She found the door she wanted in the back of the mission and quietly unzipped her bag. She gently squeezed the door handle and twisted. The door opened on a small office.
An older man was asleep at the desk. He was wearing a suit, but it was about ten years out of fashion, faded and tight on his soft, bulging frame. She set the bag on the floor and shut the door, not bothering to be quiet anymore.
The man opened his eyes and blinked as she shot the dead bolt home.
Qween said, “Told you I’d be back.”
The man nodded. “I remember you. I remember Jesus wouldn’t forgive your sins, no matter how hard we tried to save you.”
“You gonna wish Jesus was here to save you, motherfucker.”