The night doorman watched them with bleary eyes and unlocked the door. Sam flashed his star but didn’t explain as they strode through the marble foyer and stepped inside the elevator.
Sam rolled his head around, easing the kinks in his neck. He eyed the numbers clicking past. “Soft or hard?” he asked.
Ed considered it for a moment. “How long’s it been?”
“Seven months. At least.”
“Last time, we kick in the door, go in hard?”
“Think so. We’ve broken the chain at least twice.”
“Soft then. I’ve already shot somebody tonight. Got it out of my system.”
The elevator doors opened on the top floor. They stepped out onto plush red carpet and followed the hall to the end. Sam checked his watch. Three in the morning. If their past visits were any indication, David Thatcher should be just about partied out by now, and they would be catching him either unconscious or just about to pass out.
Ed rapped briskly on the door and held his star up to the peephole, blocking them from sight. No answer. Ed knocked again. “Mr. Thatcher? Chicago PD. Open up, sir.”
From behind the door, a groggy voice said, “What, what do you want?”
“Please open the door, Mr. Thatcher.”
The door opened, but only a crack. David’s eye appeared. “What the hell is going on?” Acting tough.
Sam threw his shoulder into the door, forcing it to open the length of the chain. “Hey, David. How ya doing?”
“Oh, fuck. Not you two.” He tried to shut the door, but Sam’s foot was in the way.
Sam laughed. “Miss us? I hate to break it to ya, pal, but did you know there’s a warrant out for your arrest? Got two boys in a squad car downstairs, waiting for your ass. Go look, see if you don’t believe me.” Sam withdrew his foot.
David slammed the door.
They gave him a minute. Sam knocked on the door, said loudly, “You can either talk to us, or we’ll just kick the door down again and those boys downstairs will be happy to slap some cuffs on you. Your call.” Sam gave it a second to sink in, then said, “My patience is getting a little thin.”
They heard the click and tinkle as the chain was unlatched. The door swung open, and David stood in the doorway, arms crossed, scowling. He was young, maybe mid-twenties, dressed in a blue satin robe and not much else. His blond dreadlocks were smashed flat on the left side of his head, giving him a lopsided appearance. “I didn’t do nothin’.”
Sam pushed past him and stood in the middle of the apartment. It was a hell of a lot nicer than Sam’s place. Hardwood floors. Leather couches. Marble coffee table. Recessed lighting. A giant poster of Pacino’s Scarface. An artistic black and white poster of two blondes making out. Pizza boxes and greasy fast food bags spoiled the cultured effect, though.
“Your mommy still paying the rent?”
“Fuck you. Fuck you both.”
“David, David, David.” Ed shook his head, shut the door behind him, and leaned against it. “You really should be glad to see us. If we hadn’t heard about you, and intercepted those officers downstairs, you’d be in a real pickle right now.”
Sam checked his watch. “We told ’em five minutes. You got two minutes left.”
“So what?” David put his hands on his hips. “I ain’t done nothin’.”
Ed shrugged. “You pissed somebody off, that’s all I can say. Word is, they got you dealing on tape. Digital video, five-point-one stereo surround, all the bells and whistles. It’s truly astonishing where they can put a camera these days.”
“Let’s cut to the chase, for your sake,” Sam said. “We’re offering to take care of any evidence. That way, the boys downstairs can’t take you in. Make us happy, and who knows, that tape might just get lost. Happens all the time.”
“I got nothing. I don’t deal anymore. I’m clean.”
“Sure you are. You got . . . thirty seconds to convince yourself that it’s true.”
David lasted twenty seconds before muttering, “You guys are such motherfuckers.” He turned over the giant subwoofer and pulled out three baggies of pot, at least five pounds each.
Sam tossed two bags to Ed, who stashed them in his overcoat. “You sure that’s it?”
David shook his head, finally said, “Fuck. Fuck!” He went to the empty aquarium and pulled out a baggie of fine white powder.
Sam took that as well. “Now, tell me the truth. Don’t you feel better?”
Back in the car, Ed took the passenger seat and chuckled. “That kid.” He split open a Swisher Sweet with his pocket knife, scooped out the sweet smelling tobacco, and sprinkled some of the weed in its place as Sam pulled out onto the Drive. “He gets any dumber, we’re gonna have to call Social Services.”
“Well, I suppose there’s a good reason they call it dope,” Sam said, weaving the cruiser through traffic. He rolled down the driver’s window as Ed lit the blunt. Ed passed it to him, but Sam shook his head and laughed. “You fucking hippies. I’m driving, dammit.”
Ed took another hit.
Sam pulled a flask out of his jacket and took a long sip. He hit the lights and the gas and sped south through the blowing snow on Lake Shore Drive.
CHAPTER 9
2:14 AM
December 28
“Rule number one. Get yourself some decent boots. Those, they go to what, the top of your ankle?” Don asked as the truck rolled down West Ogden, passing three buildings, liquor stores, and vacant lots filled with nothing but snow. The avenue was nearly deserted at three-thirty in the morning. Parts of the West Side looked abandoned at the best of times; tonight it looked damn near apocalyptic.
They’d been at the bar close to five hours, shooting the shit, watching basketball and hockey. Don introduced Tommy around to most of the regulars. When Don mentioned Lee’s name, guys would invariably wince and offer their condolences. Then they changed the subject. Quickly.
Tommy lifted his foot to his knee and peered at it skeptically. He’d had the boots for nearly five years. Heavy-duty leather with thick soles, he couldn’t see what was wrong with them.
“Nah. They’re no good,” Don said. “You want something that’ll go up to your knees. Like some snake hunting boots, you know? Might have to hit some of the motorcycle stores, or the farm and hunting stores down in Indiana. I’ll see if I can dig up an extra pair of pads for now. When you get ’em, make sure they’re big enough that they’ll fit over your jeans. Had a rat run up inside my work pants once. Whoo boy, lemme tell ya, that was fun.”
The crossed Cermak, then South Pulaski.
“Rule number two. Don’t waste your time chasin’ rats with bait. Mr. Rat, he’s too goddamn smart. And there’s just too many of ’em. So you find a colony, and you poison the living shit out of it.”
“We’re heading for a colony?”
“We’re heading for the biggest, baddest colony you ever seen. Just you wait. We could kill rats until Christ comes back, and we wouldn’t make a goddamn dent in their population.”
Tommy considered this for a moment. “You ever been to Palmisano Park in Bridgeport?”
Don shook his head.
“It’s a nature park, got a lake, some paths and shit. Used to be the Stearns Limestone Quarry.”
“Oh sure, sure.”
“My dad told me, back in the day, when they were done hauling limestone out, somebody had the bright idea to fill half of it up with garbage, then make a park out of it.”
Don laughed. “Bet they got more than they bargained for.”
“Dad told me that the rats got so bad, they had to burn the garbage. Guess they had to stand around the place, killing rats as it all burned. Heard they switched to construction junk to fill it in.”