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can find some other fresh meat to bust out.”
    When I let go of his lapels, his spine seemed to grow back. He adjusted the collar on his velour jump suit and made sure his baseball hat was tilted to the correct odd angle.
    “Ain’t like that. I treat my girls good. Plenty of sweet love and all the rock they can smoke.”
    “Leave. Now. Before I decide to do society a favor.”
    He sneered, spun on his three hundred dollar sneakers, and did his pimp strut away from me.
    I probably should have killed him; I had too many enemies already. But, tough as I am, shooting fourteen-year-old kids in the back isn’t my style.
    The four hundred was enough to score some coke, but not very much. I thought about calling Manny, my dealer, and getting a sample to help kill the pain, but every minute I wasted gave Jasmine a chance to slip farther away.
    Pain relief would have to wait. I pressed my hand to my left side and exited the alley and wondered where the hell I should look next.
    I’d already checked Jasmine’s apartment, her boyfriend’s apartment, her parent’s house, her known pick-up spots, and three local crack houses.
    To rule out other options, I had to call in a marker.
    It was September, about seventy with clear skies, so I took a walk down the block. The first payphone I came to had gum jammed in the coin slot. The second one smelled like a urinal, but I made do.
    “Violent Crimes, Daniels.”
    “Hi, Jack. Phineas Troutt.”
    “Phin? Haven’t seen you at the pool hall lately. Afraid I’ll kick your ass?”
    My lips twisted in a tight grin. Jacqueline Daniels was a police Lieutenant who busted me a few years back. We had an on-again-off-again eight ball game Monday nights. I’d missed a few.
    “I’m sort of preoccupied with something.”
    “Chemo again?”
    “No, work. Listen, you know what I do, right?”
    “You’re a freelance thug.”
    “I prefer the term problem solver. I keep it clean.”
    “I’m guessing that’s because we haven’t caught you in the act, yet.”
    “And you never will. Look, Jack, I need a favor.”
    “I can’t do anything illegal, Phin. You know that.”
    “Nothing shady. I just have to rule some stuff out. I’m looking for a woman. Hooker. Name is Janet Cumberland, goes by the street nick Jasmine. Any recent arrests or deaths with that name?”
    There was a pause on the line. I could only guess Jack’s thoughts.
    “Give me half an hour,” she decided. “Got a number where I can call you back?”
    I killed time at a hot dog stand, sipping black coffee mixed with ten crushed Tylenol tablets; they worked faster when they were pre-dissolved.
    The phone rang eighteen minutes later.
    “No one at the morgue matching that name, and her last arrest was three months ago.”
    “Do you have a place of residence?”
    Jack read off the apartment number I’d already checked.
    “How about known acquaintances?”
    “She’s one of Mitch D’s girls. Been arrested a few times with another prostitute named Georgia Williamson, street name is Ajax. Kind of an odd name for a hooker.”
    “She one of Mitch’s, too?”
    “Lemme check. No, looks like she’s solo.”
    “Got an addy?”
    Jack gave it to me.
    “There’s also a note in Janet’s file, says her parents are looking for her. That your angle? Even if you find her, the recit rate with crack is over 95 percent. They’ll stick her in rehab and a week later she’ll be on the street again.”
    “Thanks for the help, Jack. Next time we play pool, beer’s on me.”
    “You’re on, Phin. How’s the—”
    “Hurts,” I interrupted. “But my doc says it won’t for much longer.”
    “The tumor is shrinking? That’s great news!”
    I didn’t correct her. The tumor was growing like a weed. I wouldn’t be in pain much longer because I didn’t have much longer.
    Which is why I had to find Jasmine, and fast.
    She had to die first.
    Georgia Williams, aka Ajax, lived on 81st and Stoney, in a particularly mean part of Chicago’s