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Roseland.
    Most of my snitches have given me their cell phone numbers. If I don’t have one for a particular snitch, I basically just drive around until I find him. This isn’t hard because they usually stay in the same area.
    First on my list was Jarrod Lawhorn, my least favorite snitch. Jarrod was born and raised in Roseland and had never left the place except for stints in prison for burglaries and thefts. The Lawhorns themselves were a Roseland staple, having been one of the first families to pitch tents in the area. Nothing went on in Roseland without at least one Lawhorn’s knowledge. In his late twenties, Jarrod was my top Roseland snitch, but he wasn’t always dependable and sometimes played both sides of the fence. Standing a good six feet tall, he could easily hide behind a flagpole since he weighed, in my opinion, about 115 pounds. He always looked downright emaciated, and with his long, greasy black hair pulled into a ponytail, I found myself looking at the ground when I talked to him. He was selfish, egotistical, obnoxious, and usually drunk. The good thing is, no one would ever suspect a Lawhorn of working with the cops. Bad thing is, if someone you’re trying to get is Jarrod’s friend, he’ll tip him off instantly. I was willing to take that chance this time.
    I had Jarrod’s cell phone number, and, much to my surprise, reached him on my first try. We agreed to meet at an abandoned house that’s about a block from Jarrod’s own. The house sits in the woods, about 100 feet off the road. The locals use it mainly for partying, but I didn’t anticipate anyone being there in the afternoon. The next closest house to it is about half a mile away, so it was unlikely that anyone would see us together. I arrived first, which was as I’d expected. Not only does Jarrod make it in life without a driver’s license or a car, he also tends to walk extremely slowly when he’s meeting with a cop. I opened the trunk and retrieved two cartons of non-filtered cigarettes for him. Just looking at them made me gag—I’m a filtered smoker myself. Then I went inside to wait for Jarrod.
    It was twenty-five minutes later when he finally came strolling in the door.
    “Hey, Gallagher, no time no talk! What the fuck? You get in a car wreck or somethin’?”
    “Yep. I was in a pursuit of a bank robber and got creamed by a drunk. Go figure. So, what’s the buzz around Little Kentucky?”
    “Is that all you want, or somethin’ else? You know the deal; you got my smokes?” He licked his dried lips.
    “I got your damned smokes, Jarrod, but you know the deal, too. You get two cartons now and two after you tell me the information I want.”
    “What information do you want?”
    “Lizzie Johnston. She’s a bimbo and probably a crack-head. I gotta find her. Tell me what you hear about where she is, what she’s doing; you know the story. Matt Hensley; you know him? He says he thinks she’s been killed, but I think he’s full of shit. Yeah, and a dickhead named Bobby Delphy was heard shouting that he never touched her. See if you can hear anything on what that’s all about.
    “I heard of Hensley before,” Jarrod said in his half-mumble, his eyes on the ground at his feet. “I think that’s the guy they call Cobra. Word is he’ll move in on your piece of pussy as soon as your back’s turned. Never heard of the Delphy dude or this Lizzie chick. You sure she didn’t hook up with some nigger dealer from the North End?”
    “I don’t know. Why the hell do you think I’m here asking you about it, Mr. Genius?” I said, as nasty as possible.
    “Damn, no need to piss on me. I’m just askin’ a question.” He looked up at me. “All right, Gallagher, I’ll find out what you need, but you know how it is. It’s gonna take awhile, so don’t call me every fuckin’ day askin’ me what I got yet; I’ll call you when I know somethin’,” he muttered, adding, “If that’s all you want I gotta skid. The little