Shoot 'Em Up (15 page)

I shook out my arms, flexing my fingers, trying to figure out exactly why I was so angry with Lee. Special Unit was a dream come true for an adrenaline junkie. And what was SWAT but for that?

Juice hung up and came over. Her neoprene sheath clung to her like exactly what it was: a wet suit. The knee-high boots kept it civil. “Hi, Maisie. Let's go pick up your mail.”

“Oh? I thought it was delivered.”

“Regular mail is. Uh . . . fan mail isn't.”

“I don't follow.”

“The
Sentinel
mail room opens everything. When they find . . . um . . . aggressively interested mail, they scan and copy it. You need to sign off and file it.”

“Are you saying I have
hate
mail? Me?”

Her mouth moved as she looked for a delicate way to say it. Finding none, she nodded.

Juice led me down the hall. We got into an elevator. As the doors closed, the six-foot-one, 220-pound bulk of Ditch Broady passed by.

Juice and I got off two floors down and stopped in front of a large counter. “We're here for Maisie McGrane's fan mail.”

The squat bottle blonde behind the counter rolled her eyes and waddled behind the counter. Juice schooled me during the insanely long wait.

“You need to do this a couple times a month. Most of the columnists prefer to do it weekly. That way you feel less . . .”

“Reviled?”

Juice smiled. “Exactly!”

The stack of letters the blonde slammed on the counter was quite a bit larger than I'd expected.

There were colored paper slips in between. Reds mostly, with some pink, orange, and a couple of blue. I thanked her and scooped it up.

We walked down the hall. “So what's with the colored paper?”

“Sliding hostility scale. Red hostile, blue friendly.”

“Jaysus Criminey,” I said, flipping through the folder as Juice pushed the elevator button. A lot of red.

“It's really not that bad. Our insurance company demands we print out all the e-mail responses, too, after we had that one reporter get stab—er . . . never mind.”

I kept flipping.

Juice's perky pace slowed to a slither. “Oh my God. Look at him.”

Lee Sharpe, my own personal bad penny, leaned against the doorjamb of my office, grinning. In rolled-up shirtsleeves, hair slightly mussed, he looked positively rakish. “Waited for you downstairs. Thought you might need a ride home, Bae.”

Oh, for God's sake.
“No thanks. I'm good.”

“You don't mind if I hang around, just to make sure.”

“Lee?” I grabbed Juice by the arm. “This is my pal, Jenny Steager.”

“Uh . . . Hi!” she said. “Everyone calls me Juice.”

Lee took her hand in both of his and stared in her eyes. “Nice to meet you,
Juice
.”

For a second I thought she might swoon. “Easy, Captain Charming.” I ducked past him, tossed the thick file in my in-box, and started searching through the drawers for a pen.

Lee followed me right in and made himself at home, taking the visitor's chair and rummaging through my in-box.

Juice stood in the doorway. “Later, Maisie.” She pointed at Lee, fanned herself with a file folder, mouthed, “
Wow!
”

I threw her a small salute and she closed the door to my tiny office.

“I'm gonna kill you, you fucking corporate shill.” Lee's forehead creased in a deep frown. “You can get down on all fours and suck my . . . er . . . whoa, you got some haters, kid.”

“Admirers come in every stripe.” Four colors of Post-its, seventeen mini-boxes of paper clips, manila folders, Scotch tape, and scissors. Not a pen to be found in the place.

He shook his head. “What is this shit?”

“Fan mail. From my op-ed pieces.”

“Why isn't it on a police desk?”

“It's waiting for me to initial, and—if I decide not to notify the police—file. The red cover slip indicates high hostility. Blues are friendly.” I gave up looking for a ballpoint and dug a couple of Ultra Fine Sharpies out of my messenger bag.

“I don't think this is as harmless as you make it out to be.” Lee mashed through the stack of papers. “Christ. They're all red.”

“Lee. I've got bigger fish to fry than a militant greenie living over his parents' garage who disagrees with the guy who's writing my column's stance on the EPA.”

He read through another one; this time the helpful fellow had glue-sticked the column to his angry letter. “I see this brave social justice warrior forgot to write his return address.” The set of Lee's jaw was only slightly disturbing. “Might be fun to track Junior down, pay him a visit.”

“Logic and facts have a tendency to anger and confuse those who pass feeling-based judgments.” I handed him a blue-tagged letter before he started getting any ideas.

He scanned it and laughed. “Which one of your brothers wrote this?”

“Cute. You're assuming they can spell.”

Lee drummed his palms on my desk. “So. Can I give you a lift home, partner?”

“Sure.” I threw him a pen. “Start initialing.”

“That was smooth. Real smooth, by the way,” I said as Lee slid behind the wheel.

“Yeah? Which part?”

All of it.
“Signing on to work for Sawyer as my secretary.”

“Partner,” he corrected. “But if makes you feel better, go right ahead and dictate something.”

My iPhone pinged. Poppa Dozen.

Dawes Park was on South Damen Avenue. A mere five blocks away from West Englewood.

Lee leaned in for a look. “Who's that?”

I clicked my phone off. “None of your business.”

“Try again.” He changed his grip on the steering wheel. “Tell me about the bomb.”

“I don't see how that's relevant to your angle on this case.”

“You're my partner. Everything pertaining to your mental state is pertinent to me.”

Okay, tough guy.
“Honestly? It was pretty scary. I was buzzed and not thinking clearly when I opened the cooler. And yeah, I'm pretty much lucky to be alive. So let's just get on with things. Okay?”

“It catches up with you.” His brown eyes darkened. “When you least expect it.”

“We'll see.” I wanted to get out of the car right then and there. “I got some pretty sick avoidance moves left in the ol' skull. . . .”

He shook his head slowly. “This isn't a fucking joke, Maisie.”

“No. It isn't.” I turned away to the window.

Lee took the hint and flipped on the stereo. Sublime played a little too loud all the way to Hank's. My breath came out in a shaky sigh as he put the car in Park.

I popped the button on the seat belt and moved to open the door. He reached across, lightning fast, boxing me in. “You're not cut out for this, Maisie.”

“But you are?” The retort snapped from my mouth before I could stop it. I glanced down at Lee's ripped arm. Each muscle clearly defined, bicep, tricep, flexors, extensors.

He wasn't a little man.

“Thing is, kid, there's more than one type of lethal. The silent, detached kind. And then there's me. Happy-go-lucky, I'll crush your throat while you're laughing.”

The insides of my cheeks trembled. “I already have a boyfriend and a job. When I need a life coach, Lee, I'll let you know. Thanks for the lift.” I got out and went in the house. He sat in the driveway for several minutes before pulling out.

* * *

The alarm sounded at 9:30 p.m. I put on makeup and flat-ironed my hair. I had to leave it down, as the Tegaderm burn dressing made me look like a tween trying to hide a hickey left over from a basement vampire party.

I popped a couple of Hank's modafinals to keep my edge and went into the closet to choose an outfit.

Levi's, IDF tee, black TacShell jacket, steel-toed work boots, and the Kimber Ultra RCP II LG .45 ACP that Hank bought me, just because. A honey of a gun with a three-inch barrel and a matte-black finish. It was an “extreme melt” concealed-carry pistol. Everything on it snag-free and rounded. I checked the magazine and tucked it into the Galco holster at the small of my back.

I could hear the tease of Hank's deep voice in my ear, the feel of his chest and stomach tight against my back, his large hands over mine on the Kimber.

I grabbed the heroin out from under the bed.

AC/DC's “Back in Black” blasted through the Hellcat's stereo. Heater cranked, windows down, I hit the freeway, crushing the speed limit exactly like a girl with three brothers and a father in the CPD would.

Arriving at Dawes Park with ten minutes to spare, I circled the grounds before turning into the South Hoyne Avenue dead end. I parked nose out, opened the door, and stepped into the crisp, clear October air. Eyes closed, I leaned against the car, feeling the modafinal, listening to the autumn leaves rustle and fall.

The lights from Poppa Dozen's headlights turned the insides of my eyelids orange. He put the car in Park. The electronic
hum
of the window rolled down. “Them some fucking manly rims for a sugar baby.”

“Hey, Dozen.” I fired him a salute. He sat behind the wheel of a shiny ruby-red Navigator. “You ain't doing so bad yourself.”

“Get in.”

I grabbed the backpack out of my car and got in his. He was wearing a suit, open-necked shirt, and a thick gold necklace. I got into the Lincoln. It reeked of cigarettes and Creed cologne. Music I didn't recognize reverberated in my chest.

Dozen ran a thick tongue over his lower lip. “Yo. Seat belt.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Gotta swing by the bando. Get Dafinest's locale from the baby gangstas.”

He pulled up in front of a two-story, crumbling brick building. The ground level windows boarded shut with grafittied plywood.

I reached for the handle. Dozen thumped me in the chest. “Stay in the mutherfuckin' car, McGrane.”

A hoard of walking dead addicts mobbed the door. One look at Dozen and they faded into the sides of the entrance, paying respect to his suit and size.

He approached the chipped cement entrance. A pair of men, twenties, in flashy athletic apparel, stepped out. The trio exchanged words and Dozen returned.

“We're goin' to Dafinest's G-Momma's.” He started the SUV.

“Is that his name? Dafinest?” I asked carefully.

“Dafinest Johnson. But girl, he's Mr. Peanut to you.” He sucked his teeth. “The kid's a mutherfuckin' genius. And ruthless. He's doin' this on the down low. On account of I helped his sister once. He ain't no child. And this better never come back on him. Unnerstand what I'm sayin'?”

I nodded. “Mr. Peanut. Got it.”

He took Damsen to Eighty-seventh. “You still wearing Renko's ring.”

“Yeah. Keeps the hounds at bay.”

“Cuz ‘The Bull' ain't fond of dogs, is he?”

I can play tough, too, Poppa.
“Stannis hasn't been called ‘The Bull' for years. But Coles preferred it to what they call him now.”

“And wha's that?”

“‘The Butcher.'”

“Shit, Sweetness. You don't gotta try an' scare me. I know crazy when I see it.” He knocked on the ceiling as we turned onto South Greenwood and traversed into one of the upper circles of hell—Burnside.

We stopped in front of a small tan bungalow. Ordinary, if you didn't count the game cameras affixed to the corners of the roof, the blackened razor wire atop the wrought-iron fence, bars on the windows, dogs barking in the back, or the locked gate across the driveway to the left of the house.

Dozen honked twice, waited a five count, and honked twice again.

A midfifties woman in glasses and curlers and a pink housecoat stepped out onto the porch.

Dozen turned to me. “Out of the car, McGrane.”

We approached the fence. He held up a hand. “Hey, G-Momma.”

“Percy Dozen?” the woman asked. “Who that white girl with you?”

I held up the backpack. “UPS.”

The woman came to the fence, a ring of keys in her hand. “You carrying?” she asked me.

Dozen rolled his eyes.

Then coughed in surprise when I unzipped my jacket and pulled the Kimber Ultra. “Yes, ma'am,” I said.

She held out her hand.

I released the slide, removed the magazine, and handed it to her. I secured the gun back in the holster.

She didn't like it, but she unlocked the gate, securing it behind us before leading us up the sidewalk into the little house.

The inside was cleaner than most hotels and smelled of furniture polish and starch. Overstuffed, spindly-legged furniture was dwarfed by an enormous curved screen Samsung television in the center of the room. “Dafinest?” she called. “Your appointment is here.”

“Thanks, G-Momma.” A diminutive, freckle-faced, light-skinned teen came into the room. The resemblance to Mr. Peanut was evident, with a left eye noticeably smaller than his right. He was sixteen, tops, wearing low-slung jeans, high-tops, and a Bears jersey. He gave me a careful going-over, then nodded at Dozen. “C'mon.”

We followed him down a hallway to a basement stairway that opened up into a laundry room and his grandma's pantry. He went to one of the built-in shelving units and pulled. The wall of cans opened onto a locked door, behind which was a twenty-foot-by-twenty-foot mini-laboratory and two clean-room attired workers.

We walked up to the counter. I opened my backpack and handed the heroin to Mr. Peanut. He set it on a butcher's scale. Eleven-point-oh-five kilos.

He motioned to the workers, who each came over with a milligram scale, sealed ampoule, packet of solution, and a skinny package. One unrolled a sheet of butcher paper. The other moved the heroin onto the paper and sliced open the package with a scalpel.

Both of the workers opened their ampoules, poured in the buffer solution, and unwrapped tiny spatulas. Precisely measuring out 20 milligrams of heroin into the weighing boat on their respective scales, they transferred the contents into the ampoules and snapped on the lid.

Each ampoule got a single shake.

The liquid inside instantly turned a dark orangey-brown.

“Ninety percent at least.” Mr. Peanut nodded at the workers. “Cut it to seventy with mannitol.” He sent a text, then turned to Dozen and me. “So we gonna start moving this quantity regular like, Meter Maid?”

Really?
I shot Dozen a dirty look.
That's the drug dealer name I get? The worst fecking job I've ever had?

Dozen grinned.

“Um, I'm not sure, Mr. Peanut. My Mexican connection is a little . . . er . . . unstable as of late.”

“I hear you,” he said. “Them
loco tacos
all up in our areous shooting up Humboldt Park. Doin' it with some hot four-poundas.”

“Wouldn't happen to got a line on some o' them, would you, Meter Maid?”

“Guns?” I asked.

“Yeah. Them flashy ones with the black diamond. Thass some class there, amiright, Doz?”

Dozen grunted.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Peanut. I don't.”

“Okay. And now you know I got interest.” Dafinest adjusted his jeans. “Lemme make somethin' clear. While this been a profitable exchange for both of us, I'm still doing you a solid 'cuz of Dozen, payin' you market value. So dontcha go bustin' my nut, a'ight? You get another quality load you come to me. And me alone.”

“Agreed,” I said and held out my hand.

“You wanna shake hands, bitch?” He laughed at me without a hint of malice. “Nah.” He slapped my palm with the back of his hand and the back of my hand with his palm. “Hey, Dozen—let's take her up, have her do this lil' trained monkey shit in front of G-Momma.”

Dozen pressed his fingertips to his forehead, the message “
you're embarrassing the hell out of me in front of Mr. Peanut
” unmistakable.

We followed the teenager out of the room and up the stairs.

G-Momma was at the kitchen table. Stacks of twenties, fifties, and hundreds were rubber-banded into two separate piles. 100K and 17K.

“Check it, Meter Maid.” Mr. Peanut handed Dozen a plastic Nike bag, for the seventeen grand.

“Thanks, man,” Dozen said.

I started flipping through the stacks. As soon as I finished a stack, G-Momma put it into a Macy's shopping bag. It wasn't like I was actually counting it, but I knew that me taking it as is would have been frowned upon.

Heavily.

I riffled the last stack of hundreds and tried not to breathe a sigh of relief as the cash went into the bag. My hands were filthy and my face itched. G-Momma laid a dishcloth over the top of the money, put the Kimber Ultra's magazine on top, and handed me the bag.

Mr. Peanut walked us out onto the front porch and whistled. Two black men carrying AR-15 pistols stepped out of the shadows.

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Peanut,” I said.

“Yeah. Dozen said you was a'ight and he was correct. I had G-Momma throw a lil' snowcap in. Celebrate our first deal.”

Weed sprinkled with coke.

“Thanks,” I said. “Appreciate it.”