by now.
The chordotomy offered enough pain relief to allow me to function, and tequila, cocaine and codeine made up for the remainder.
I dressed in some baggy sweatpants, my bloody gym shoes (with a new five-dollar bill in the sole) and a clean white T-shirt. I strapped my leather shotgun sling under my armpits and placed the Mossberg in the holster. It hung directly between my shoulder blades, barrel up, and could be freed by reaching my right hand behind me at waist level.
A baggy black trench coat went on over the rig, concealing the shotgun and the leather straps that held it in place.
I pocketed the five extra shells, the bag of gray granules, a Glock 21 with two extra clips of .45 rounds and a six-inch butterfly knife. Then I hung an iron crowbar on an extra strap sewn into the lining of my coat, and headed out to greet the morning.
Chinatown smelled like a combination of soy sauce and garbage. It was worse in the summer, when stenches seemed to settle in and stick to your clothes. Though not yet seven in the morning, the temperature already hovered in the low nineties. The sun made my face hurt.
I walked up State, past Cermak, and headed east. The Sing Lung Bakery had opened for business an hour earlier. The manager, a squat Mandarin Chinese named Ti, did a double take when I entered.
“Phin! Your face is horrible!” He rushed around the counter to meet me, hands and shirt dusty with flour.
“My mom liked it okay.”
Ti’s features twisted in concern. “Was it them? The ones who butchered my daughter?”
I gave him a brief nod.
Ti hung his head. “I am sorry to bring this suffering upon you. They are very bad men.”
I shrugged, which hurt. “It was my fault. I got careless.”
That was an understatement. After combing Chicago for almost a week, I’d discovered the bangers had gone underground. I got one guy to talk, and after a bit of friendly persuasion he gladly offered some vital info; Sunny’s killers were due to appear in court on an unrelated charge.
I’d gone to the Daly Center, where the prelim hearing was being held, and watched from the sidelines. After matching their names to faces, I followed them back to their hidey-hole.
My mistake had been to stick around. A white guy in a Hispanic neighborhood tends to stand out. Having just been to court, which required walking through a metal detector, I had no weapons on me.
Stupid. Ti and Sunny deserved someone smarter.
Ti had found me through the grapevine, where I got most of my business. Phineas Troutt, Problem Solver. No job too dirty, no fee too high.
I’d met him in a parking lot across the street, and he laid out the whole sad, sick story of what these animals had done to his little girl.
“Cops do nothing. Sunny’s friend too scared to press charges.”
Sunny’s friend had managed to escape with only ten missing teeth, six stab wounds and a torn rectum. Sunny hadn’t been as lucky.
Ti agreed to my price without question. Not too many people haggled with paid killers.
“You finish job today?” Ti asked, reaching into his glass display counter for a pastry.
“Yeah.”
“In the way we talk about?”
“In the way we talked about.”
Ti bowed and thanked me. Then he stuffed two pastries into a bag and held them out.
“Duck egg moon cake, and red bean ball with sesame. Please take.”
I took.
“Tell me when you find them.”
“I’ll be back later today. Keep an eye on the news. You might see something you’ll like.”
I left the bakery and headed for the bus. Ti had paid me enough to afford a cab, or even a limo, but cabs and limos kept records. Besides, I preferred to save my money for more important things, like drugs and hookers. I try to live every day as if it’s my last.
After all, it very well might be.
The bus arrived, and again everyone took great pains not to stare. The trip was short, only about two miles, taking me to a neighborhood known as Pilsen, on Racine and Eighteenth.
I left my duck egg moon cake and my red bean ball on the bus for some other lucky passenger to enjoy, then stepped out into Little Mexico.
It smelled like a combination of salsa and garbage.
There weren’t many people out—too early for shoppers and commuters. The stores had Spanish signs, not bothering with English translations: zapatos, ropa, restaurante, tiendas de comestibles, bancos, teléfonos de la célula. I passed the alley where I’d gotten the shit kicked out of me, kept heading north, and located the apartment building where my three amigos were staying. I tried the front door.
They hadn’t left it open for me.
Though the gray paint was faded and peeling, the door was heavy aluminum and the lock solid. But the jamb, as I’d remembered from yesterday’s visit, was old wood. I removed the crowbar from my jacket lining, gave a discreet look in either direction and pried open the door in less time than it took to open it with a key, the frame splintering and cracking.
The Kings occupied the basement apartment to the left of the entrance, facing the street. Last night I’d counted seven—five men and two women—including my three targets. Of course, there may be other people inside that I’d missed.
This was going to be interesting.
Unlike the front door, their apartment door was a joke. They apparently thought being gang members meant they didn’t need decent security.
They thought wrong.
I took out my Glock and tried to stop hyperventilating. Breaking into someone’s place is scary as hell. It always is.
One hard kick and the door burst inward.
A guy on the couch, sleeping in front of the TV. Not one of my marks. He woke up and stared at me. It took a millisecond to register the gang tattoo, a five-pointed crown, on the back of his hand.
I shot him in his forehead.
If the busted door didn’t wake everyone up, the .45 did, sounding like thunder in the small room.
Movement to my right. A woman in the kitchen, in panties and a Dago-T, too much makeup and baby fat.
“Te vayas!” I hissed at her.
She took the message and ran out the door.
A man stumbled into the hall, tripping and falling to the thin carpet. One of mine, the guy who’d pinned my right arm while I’d been worked over. He clutched a stiletto. I was on him in two quick steps,
