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me?”
    “Cosmetics. As you recall, Abigail Cummings wore enough make-up to cause back-problems. Who could tell what she looked like under all that gunk? Glen just slopped on enough to look like a circus clown, and then he impersonated her.”
    Thorpe shook his head, clucking his tongue.
    “So it wasn’t actually Abigail. It was Glen all along. Such a nice guy, too.”
    “It’s the nice ones you have to watch.”
    “So, now what? Should I call the police?”
    “No need. Glen won’t be bothering you, or any dog owner, ever again.”
    I gave him the quick version of the backyard scene.
    “He deserves it, taking Marcus from me. But now I have you back, don’t I, boy?”
    There was more wrestling, and he actually kissed Marcus on the mouth.
    “Kind of unsanitary, isn’t it?”
    “Are you kidding? A dog’s saliva is full of antiseptic properties.”
    “I was speaking for Marcus.”
    Thorpe laughed. “Friendship transcends species, Mr. McGlade. Speaking of which, where’s that Collie/Shepherd mix that Abigail gave you?”
    “At my apartment.”
    “See? You’ve made a new friend, yourself.”
    “Nope. I’ve got a six o’clock appointment at the animal shelter. I’m getting him gassed.”
    Thorpe shot me surprised look.
    “Mr. McGlade! After this whole ordeal, don’t you see what amazing companions canines are? A dog can enrich your life! All you have to do is give him a chance.”
    I mulled it over. How bad could it be, having a friend who never borrowed money, stole your girl, or talked behind your back?
    “You know what, Mr. Thorpe? I may just give it a shot.”
    When I got home a few hours later, I discovered my new best friend had chewed the padding off of my leather couch.
    I made it to the shelter an hour before my scheduled appointment.

Street Music is my favorite story of any I’ve written. Phineas Trout was the hero of my first novel, an unpublished mystery called
Dead On My Feet
, written back in 1992. It was unabashedly hardboiled, and it helped me land my first agent. The book never sold, probably because it was unabashedly hardboiled. Phin starred in two more unpublished novels, and then I relegated him to the role of sidekick in the Jack Daniels series, which did wind up selling. I’m intrigued by the idea of a hero dying of cancer, and how having no hope left could erode a man’s morality. I wrote this story right after selling
Whiskey Sour
, and soon after sold it to
Ellery Queen.
    M itch couldn’t answer me with the barrel of my gun in his mouth, so I pulled it out.
    “I don’t know! I swear!”
    If that was the truth, I had no use for it. After three days of questioning dozens of hookers, junkies, and other fine examples of Chicago’s populace, Mitch was my only link to Jasmine. I was seriously jonesing; I hadn’t done a line since Thursday. Plus, the pain in my side felt like a baby alligator was trying to eat its way out of my pancreas.
    I gave Mitch’s chin a little tap with the butt of the Glock.
    “I really don’t know!”
    “She’s one of yours, Mitch. I thought big, tough pimps like you ran a tight ship.”
    His black face was shiny with sweat and a little blood. Sure, he was scared. But he wasn’t stupid. Telling me Jasmine’s whereabouts would put a dent in his income.
    I raised the gun back to hit him again.
    “She went rogue on me, man! She ditched!”
    I paused. If Jasmine had left Mitch, his reluctance to talk about it made some sense. Mack Daddies don’t like word to get out that they’re losing their game.
    “How much money do you have on you?”
    “About four hundos. It’s yours, man. Front pants pocket.”
    “I’m not putting my hand in there. Take it out.”
    Mitch managed to stop shaking long enough to retrieve a fat money clip. I took the cash, and threw the clip—a gold emblem in the shape of a female breast–onto the sidewalk.
    “You letting me go?” Mitch asked.
    “You’re free to pimp another day. Go run to the bus station, see if you