Marcus Sakey - The Blade Itself

It was a thin rationale to pin his hopes on, and he knew it. But it was Nolan or nobody. What was he going to do, call 911? He didn’t have anything to tell them, not really, and he knew police procedure well enough to know he didn’t want the attention. Karen knew about his past, sure, and Patrick, but as far as the rest of the world was concerned, Danny had always been in construction. He’d lied to get his first shot as a yard hand – plenty of people did, mostly Latins without papers – but he’d risen to a point where that kind of attention could hurt. How would Richard react to find he’d trusted the management of his business to a man with two felony counts?

And that was assuming things went well . He could suffer much worse than damage to his reputation. If Evan dimed him out on the pawnshop, he’d face charges. Lose his job, his freedom, maybe even Karen. Set himself back seven years – more, when you counted however long he spent in jail.

Which made this discussion even more delicate. Danny was counting on Nolan’s discretion, a dicey prospect at best. The thought made his stomach burn acid. “We don’t owe each other anything, I know that. But I’ve been spotless for years. Worked my way up same as you, same as anybody. I didn’t ask any favors doing it – I did it on my own, and I did it square.” He hesitated. “I’m worried. For myself, for Karen, for…” He stopped himself. No need to mention Richard or Tommy.

Nolan set down his fork, looked over for the first time, his eyes searching Danny’s face as if looking for clues. “What aren’t you telling me?”

The flush in his gut worsened. He broke off a piece of bacon, munched slowly. Didn’t taste it. Point of no return. Once he crossed this line, he’d be giving up the last bit of honor among thieves. Chips on the table, kid.

“It’s Evan McGann.”

Nolan was silent for a moment. He turned back to his plate, stabbed a forkful of eggs and passed them into his mouth, chewing vigorously. When he was done, he turned to look at Danny.

And burst out laughing.

“I’m not kidding, Sean.” Danny’s knuckles went white on the edge of the counter. He felt like he might slide off the stool and right off the face of the planet.

“Oh, I believe you.” His face was red with hilarity, the freckles a scattering of dark buckshot. Danny stared in silence, the seconds passing, the pressure in his stomach mounting. The laughter finally wound down. Still merry, Nolan shoveled up the last of his eggs, speaking around a mouthful of them, flecks of egg spattering. “Time to pay the piper, eh Carter?”

Danny’s heart fell. Nolan wouldn’t help him more than any other cop would. He’d crossed the line for nothing. “Sean.” He kept his voice level and quiet. “We’re scared. Evan’s not messing about.”

“I bet. Probably a little pissed about his last fall, yeah? ’Course, you wouldn’t know anything about that. You weren’t there, right?”

Danny forced himself to stare at the detective. “I was always small-time. You know that. For chrissake, we grew up in the same neighborhood.”

“Bullshit.” Nolan’s face went from the red of laughter to a more dangerous shade. “Bullshit, Danny. Don’t lay that on me.”

“You won’t help.”

“Help you what? Your old partner is back in town, wants something from you? You’re in construction, right? So what’s he want?”

Danny said nothing.

“Yeah, I thought so. What, is he after some old score you spent instead of splitting? Or just pissed you bailed on him? You were in the pawnshop, weren’t you?”

The answer would be inadmissible, but Danny didn’t see any point in speaking.

“You crack me up, you really do. You’re clean? Good for you. Most people have been their whole lives. You want special treatment because you mended your ways?”

“The same treatment would be nice.”

“A citizen would call in and have a squad car come by, get the whole story. You can’t do that, can you?”

Danny shook his head.

“And that tells me all I need to know. Time to pay the fucking consequences. Overdue, if you ask me.”

“Sean-”

“It’s ‘Detective.’” Nolan stood, brushing crumbs from his pants. “And Danny, word to the wise. Since you called me, I’m not going to make much of this. I got better things to do than dig in decade-old robberies. But I’m gonna watch you. If you make one move out of line, and I mean one tiny little step, I’m going to pack your Irish ass off to Stateville. Where you belong.” He tossed the crumpled napkin to the counter. “Thanks for breakfast.”

The bell tinkled as he walked out, leaving Danny alone at the counter, officially between worlds. He put his head in his hands and sighed. In that moment, if he’d been given the chance, he might have taken back his whole life.

Finding the bastard was proving harder than he’d expected.

Patrick had started at Murphy’s. A blue-collar institution, the neighborhood bar was a dim, narrow place nestled between gray tract houses. Thick dust coated an unlit Guinness sign in the window. A battered pool table sat in back.

Smilin’ Jimmy had pulled pints for thirty years without cracking the permanent scowl that had earned him the nickname. Patrick said hello, ordered a shot and a beer. Jimmy knew everything happening in the neighborhood, but you couldn’t ask him outright. There was an art to it. To get him talking at all you had to start with horses, so Patrick listened – for what had to be the hundredth time – to Jimmy’s fail-safe system for picking winners. He knew better than to question why the inventor of a fail-safe system still needed to tend bar.

After Jimmy wound down, Patrick asked him, keeping his tone casual, like he was just inquiring after a friend.

“Evan McGann?” The bartender glowered. “Big guy, used to box? Yeah, he’s been in.”

“I heard he got out of Stateville recently. Haven’t seen him since. I’d love to catch up with him.”

“Sure he’ll be around.”

“I might have some work for him,” Patrick lied. “He say where he was living?”

“Nope.” The bartender wiped the wood with a dingy rag. His knuckles were thick knots.

“Mention if he was in the neighborhood, at least?”

Jimmy stopped wiping, looked up. His eyes had the cool distance of those of a man who’d spent his life breaking up fights between young criminals. “He didn’t say, and I don’t ask.”

Patrick caught the hint. Murphy’s was a neighborhood bar. You didn’t ask somebody like Jimmy to air dirty laundry. It was a violation of neutrality.

He spent the rest of the afternoon cruising his personal map of Chicago. Not for tourists, this one – a ragtag of storerooms piled with liquor boxes, off-track betting parlors, delis reeking of sauerkraut, shabby ranches with crank-lab kitchens. If Evan planned to start operating again, he’d need to let people know he was back in town. It wasn’t like the movies, where everybody worked in a vacuum. There was a community, and success depended in part on whether people recognized your bona fides.

The afternoon was a bust. For a man who said he wanted to get back in the game, Evan had been surprisingly quiet. Patrick went home thinking he might have to spend the next few days just hanging out at Murphy’s, waiting for Evan to wander in.

The next morning, Monday, it hit him. Evan had been strapped that day in Danny’s kitchen.

There were lots of ways to get a gun. The safest was to steal one from a civilian. That way you knew the piece was clean – the cops could still nail you with weapons charges, but you weren’t going to have to answer for a murder somebody else committed. But that took legwork, and more patience than Evan possessed. Nor could Patrick see him tracking down one of the black kids who sold out of the trunk of a car.