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plaza.
    Ow.
    I sat there a moment, contemplating the fates and rubbing my tailbone. It wasn’t Joe Gilliam I was queasy about. The feds’ misunderstanding of the nature of covert operations was troubling, but it was the quick, almost offhanded go-ahead I received from Agent Schram that was giving me the wim wams.

Chapter Eight
    I’d lied to Assistant Special Agent Richard Schram, the Fulton Road Mob knew about my meeting with him. The Schooler was waiting at an undisclosed location to see the plans. I was to walk eight blocks to the corner of St. Clair and East 17 th . If the coast was clear someone would pick me up. And I had a good idea who that someone would be.
    The wind whipped down the concrete canyon of St. Clair Avenue, frosting my eyebrows. The women I passed wore fur hats. The younger ones, rabbit or beaver, the matrons, mink or sable. All the men wore felt fedoras, brims snapped low against the wind.
    I must have looked like the Nickel Plate pulling into Union Terminal with the geyser of steam pouring off my dome. I have never gotten along with hats, was forever leaving them behind or chasing them down the sidewalk. But maybe it was time to buy a lid.
    The street changed once I passed East 9 th . Got colder too, if that’s possible. The skyscrapers gave way to soot darkened brick buildings the color of dried blood. Lunch bucket guys in Elmer Fudd caps took the place of swanky dames in fur hats.
    I cut across St. Clair, ducked down an alley behind a block long building that hummed with turbines and muffled shouts and hid behind a dumpster at the far end and waited. No one followed. Apparently Agent Schram had bought my story.
    I went to the anointed corner and listened to my teeth chatter for ten minutes. Skimmer, hell, I was going to have to buy some long johns.
    Jimmy’s Buick pulled up a short time later. I climbed in and said, “You’re late.” Jimmy did not reply. “It’s not that I mindfreezing my yobs off in subzero temperatures you understand, nothing like that. It’s just I felt a wee bit…
conspicuous
standing out there on the street corner.”
    Jimmy turned left on East 20 th . “Hadda make sure you weren’t tailed.”
    I removed my gloves and tried to rub some feeling back into my fingers.
No, you beak-nosed prick, you knew I had already made sure of that. What you wanted was for me to shiver on that street corner till the FBI tail car you expected after your anonymous ratting-me-out-to-the-feds phone call had tracked me down.
    That’s what I wanted to say. What I did say was, “Sure.” I had some fence-mending to do.
    The Buick crossed the train tracks and turned west on Shoreway. The lake was a block of ice. We motored down the highway. The sky went dark in the shadow of Municipal Stadium, returned to dim winter light on the other side. Did I know for a fact that Jimmy had called the feds and peached me out?
    No I did not. But something was sure going on in that simian skull. Jimmy was observing the speed limit, using his turn signals to change lanes, driving like your Great Aunt Bertha. Was he trying to figure out why the feds didn’t roll up after his phone call and carry me off to the hoosegow? Or maybe he had puzzled that through and was worrying about what to do now. He couldn’t very well tell The Schooler he had blown the whistle on me.
    I flirted with the idea of coming clean, telling Jimmy that I had told the feds that I had told the mob I was an undercover agent because I knew Jimmy was hacked off and would rat me out. But what if he hadn’t? He had, but what if he hadn’t? Never tip your mitt till you have to, that’s my motto.
    We rolled across the big blue span known as the Main Avenue Bridge. I could see the lit-up cross atop St. Malachi’s Church, a friendly beacon to homesick sailors on the lake.Jimmy checked the rear view mirror for the tenth time and slowed to a crawl. Horns honked. The