Jeff Jacobson - Sleep Tight

Don, though, was relaxed all the time. He moved in one speed and never got in much of a hurry. The way he saw it, the rats would always be around. Why rush? “Besides man, rats are the most successful mammal on the planet. They’re everywhere. And they’re gonna be too, long after we’re gone. That’s what I call job security. Long as you stay outta the boss’s way, you got yourself a job for life. Nobody sane wants it, I’ll tell you that much.”

Then, that night in April, a couple of big guys were waiting in the locker room. They wore irritated scowls and name tags that claimed they were union reps. One said, “We understand you two have the highest numbers of dead rats in Streets and Sans.”

The other one said with a flat smile, “Couple stone-cold killers.”

The situation was a little dicey, because it was considered bad form to always be outshining your fellow employees, so most nights they took it easy, hanging out in the city employee bar. Still, Don said, “So what? We’re doing our job. Any problems with that?”

The first union rep spread his hands and shook his head. “No. No problems. But things have changed, at least for the time being. We were sent down here to talk to everybody, explain the situation.”

The second said, “No more dead rats. The little fuckers got a phone call from the governor. Let ’em be. Until further notice.”

“Says who?” Don asked.

“Do we really have to spell it out for you? And does it matter?”

“Guess not,” Don said.

“And it should go without saying, but we want to make this perfectly clear that this is to be kept between us. The wrong person hears that the rats aren’t on the city’s hit list anymore, they might jump to the wrong conclusions.”

“Look at it as a reward for a job well done,” the second one said.

There was no point in arguing. The message had been received loud and clear. From that night on, Don and Tommy made a show of putting out traps for the first hour or so, despite the fact that there was no bait in them. Then they would head to the bar and never leave until morning. The instructions were that simple. They would spend the night drinking beer, watching CSN, unless it was golf, then they would begrudgingly switch over to ESPN and that was the cue for everybody in the bar to argue loudly about all the other cities and sports besides Chicago.

Most everybody who worked in vermin control in Streets and Sans knew that Lee was out there, pulling strings, fucking with their jobs, but nobody wanted to talk about it much. Tommy thought it was a hell of a way to earn a paycheck, but so far, Kimmy had kept her end of the bargain, and had not blocked his visits.

CHAPTER 15

9:13 PM

April 17

“Now what do you suppose these fucking idiots are doing?” Ed asked, taking a thoughtful sip from Sam’s flask.

Sam took the flask, leaned back, and got a better angle in the side mirror. Two blocks behind them, a Chicago Police cruiser jerked to a stop at the corner of Garfield and Halsted. They had the flashers on, sending jittery blue lights across the entire intersection. No sirens though. Two uniformed patrolmen burst out of the car.

The guy Ed and Sam had been watching didn’t even bother to run. The cops slammed him on the pavement, cuffed his hands behind his back, and threw him in the back of the cruiser. They jumped into the front and took off. The traffic began to move again, and people ventured away from the buildings and started back across the street.

The whole thing took less than thirty seconds. It was as if a rock had been dropped into a puddle. For a moment, the waves splashed out, disturbing the surface, but before long the water slid back into place, obliterating all traces of the rock.

“Goddamnit,” Ed said.

“We aren’t the only ones picking forbidden fruit, brother.”

“He’s not holding.” Every cop knew this. Very few drug dealers were dumb enough to stand out in the open and conduct business. They just arranged the deal, and sent the customers to the right spot for the actual transaction.

“Doesn’t matter. Gotta be payback for something.”

“If those pricks are working for the Latin Kings, we gotta think of something halfway clever.”

The cruiser headed west down Garfield.

“Fifty bucks says they’re headed into LK territory.”

Ed whipped the Crown Vic in a tight U-turn. Horns echoed up and down Halsted. “Out of the way, hammerhead,” he yelled at a Cadillac that blocked the street.

“Thank God we’re keeping a low profile here,” Sam said.

“Those two are so jacked up from nabbing somebody off the street without calling for backup, they aren’t watching their mirrors. Don’t sweat it.”

The Cadillac finally got out of its own way and Ed sped past it. He squinted at the lights ahead. “Forgot my glasses. They still got their lights on?”

“Can’t tell.”

At the next side street, Ed yanked the wheel to the right, racing west along Fifty-fourth, so they were parallel to Garfield. They rushed through the summer darkness, blowing through stop signs.

“Easy,” Sam said. “Last thing we need is to hit a kid.”

“Yes, Miss Daisy.”

Ed knew that Fifty-fourth Street dead-ended into train tracks so he turned south on Damen. Ed coasted along as Garfield got closer.

“There!” Sam pointed. The cruiser flashed past, running with just headlights. “You owe me fifty bucks.”

Ed ignored this. “That boy is gonna be in a big hurt if they drop him off on the Latin Kings’ turf.” The guy was known on the streets as Ducey and known to the Justice Department as Darryl Adams. He’d grown up in the Blackstones, and now was one of the top lieutenants. Ed and Sam didn’t give a damn about him, though. They were just keeping an eye on him on the off chance they might spot a certain Javier Delgado.

Delgado was wanted in connection with a suspicious murder-suicide in a crack house in Northern Indiana. Word was that Delgado was hiding out with family in Detroit, but Ed and Sam knew that Delgado and Ducey’s sister had a three-year-old son together, so it was worth a shot. Commendations from both the narcotics squad and the homicide division certainly wouldn’t hurt when they went looking for consulting gigs after retirement.

But now Ducey was about to be kicked into a rival gang’s territory, a wolf tossed to the lions. The locals called it a “bitch drop,” as in you got dropped off and then ran like a bitch. Ed and Sam didn’t particularly give a rat’s ass about a gangbanger like Ducey, but it was the principle of the thing.

Ed jumped into traffic on Garfield, cutting into traffic in a storm of horns and brake lights. He pulled up next to the cruiser and Sam locked eyes with the cop driving. Sam held up his badge and pointed to the curb.

The driver nodded and gave a mock salute. He didn’t pull over to the side of Garfield. Instead, he turned the next corner and parked on a quiet side street, away from the eyes of passing cars.

“Let me do the talking,” Sam said.

“Don’t piss ’em off.”

“Let me do the talking.”

Ed eased to a stop behind the cruiser. The patrolmen didn’t wait in the car like citizens. Instead, they met Ed and Sam in the wash of headlights in front of the Crown Vic.

“What can we do to help you out, detectives?” the driver asked with a fawning sincerity that was almost real enough to mask his irritation.

“Officer . . . Falwell, is it?” Sam asked.

“Yes, sir. Again, how can we help you, Detective . . . ?”

“I’m Detective Tackleberry. This is Detective Hightower.” Sam hoped the patrolmen were too young to have bothered watching the movie Police Academy . “We’re actually working with IA.” Sam paused for dramatic emphasis, as if he was about to tell someone a loved one had been killed in the line of duty. “Officer Falwell, we need to speak with you in private, I’m afraid.”