Jeff Jacobson - Sleep Tight

Don stabbed a cheese fry into a lake of ketchup and fixed Tommy with a grin that straightened out his mustache. “But you, my friend, you stick with me and I’ll show you some things you never seen. Things that make this job of ours a sweet deal. But first, you gotta answer me this. Who’s upstairs pulling strings for you? Guy like you doesn’t just fall into a job like this. I got ten guys on the garbage detail fighting for this spot. What makes you special?”

Tommy had known this was coming. Hell, he’d be pissed if he’d worked for a job for a long time only to watch some young punk jump ahead of him. “Believe it or not, Lee Shea got me this job.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“He a friend of yours?”

“Hell, no. You?”

“Fuck, no. I hate that slimy little bastard.”

“Me, too. So let’s just say he’s got my balls in a vise. Says to be here and be ready for work, and well, here I am.”

“You ain’t the only one in town. Motherfucker’s got his hands in a lot of places around town. Yours ain’t the only balls that sonofabitch is squeezing.” Don sat back, absentmindedly wiping ketchup and cheese out of the corners of his mustache. “What the hell are you gonna do? Fuckin’ Chicago. Might as well make the best of it. Have another beer. We’re gonna be here a while. Take a nap, you feel like it. We’ll head out later. I got a place where we can find all the rats we need.”

CHAPTER 8

11:44 PM

December 27

Ed followed the Kennedy into the city and got off at Addison, heading east.

“Jesus. I’d forgotten how much I hate cruisers,” Sam said, struggling to find a comfortable position for his long legs among all the electronic crap and extra gear in the front seat. He unscrewed his flask, offered it to Ed. Ed shook his head. Sam took a deep pull. He mostly hated the police cars because they didn’t have a radio. Oh sure, every car had plenty of law communication equipment, but not an honest-to-goodness AM/FM radio. Not that the radio stations played much that they liked anyway.

Ed and Sam couldn’t stand most current popular music. R and B? Please. That used to mean something more than grunting and cooing “baby” a thousand times. Once in a while, they’d get lucky, and hear an old Sam and Dave song, maybe even some Muddy Waters, and they’d sing along, Ed in an unnaturally deep baritone, and Sam in a strangled, off-key cry. Outside the car, it probably sounded like shit, but inside, he figured they harmonized just fine.

Hearing a good song was rare. They stayed away from the popular stations. Sometimes the local college kids got tired of playing songs in which the musicians had apparently fallen asleep on their keyboards staring into the unfathomable depths of their belly buttons, and went retro and played some good stuff. You’d be surprised how hard it was to hear legendary local blues folks like Junior Wells, Magic Sam, Koko Taylor, or even Howlin’ Wolf on the radio.

Jazz? Sure, there was enough jazz to make your ears bleed. Problem was, Sam thought most of it sounded like somebody recorded a toddler with ADHD attacking a piano with a hammer while somebody else threw a drum set down the stairs.

They pulled up in front of one of the grand old dames that lined Lake Shore Drive, colossal, ornate buildings decades beyond their glory years. Ed hit the siren, jolting the night doorman out of a nap. Ed left the spinning lights on, splashing the front of the building with a blinking blue light show.

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?”