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“What the hell are you gonna do? Fuckin’ Chicago. Might as well make the best of it. Have another beer. We’re gonna be here a while. Take a nap, you feel like it. We’ll head out later. I got a place where we can find all the rats we need.”

C HAPTER 8
    11:44 PM
    December 27
    Â 
    Ed followed the Kennedy into the city and got off at Addison, heading east.
    â€œJesus. I’d forgotten how much I hate cruisers,” Sam said, struggling to find a comfortable position for his long legs among all the electronic crap and extra gear in the front seat. He unscrewed his flask, offered it to Ed. Ed shook his head. Sam took a deep pull. He mostly hated the police cars because they didn’t have a radio. Oh sure, every car had plenty of law communication equipment, but not an honest-to-goodness AM/FM radio. Not that the radio stations played much that they liked anyway.
    Ed and Sam couldn’t stand most current popular music. R and B? Please. That used to mean something more than grunting and cooing “baby” a thousand times. Once in a while, they’d get lucky, and hear an old Sam and Dave song, maybe even some Muddy Waters, and they’d sing along, Ed in an unnaturally deep baritone, and Sam in a strangled, off-key cry. Outside the car, it probably sounded like shit, but inside, he figured they harmonized just fine.
    Hearing a good song was rare. They stayed away from the popular stations. Sometimes the local college kids got tired of playing songs in which the musicians had apparently fallen asleep on their keyboards staring into the unfathomable depths of their belly buttons, and went retro and played some good stuff. You’d be surprised how hard it was to hear legendary local blues folks like Junior Wells, Magic Sam, Koko Taylor, or even Howlin’ Wolf on the radio.
    Jazz? Sure, there was enough jazz to make your ears bleed. Problem was, Sam thought most of it sounded like somebody recorded a toddler with ADHD attacking a piano with a hammer while somebody else threw a drum set down the stairs.
    They pulled up in front of one of the grand old dames that lined Lake Shore Drive, colossal, ornate buildings decades beyond their glory years. Ed hit the siren, jolting the night doorman out of a nap. Ed left the spinning lights on, splashing the front of the building with a blinking blue light show.
    The night doorman watched them with bleary eyes and unlocked the door. Sam flashed his star but didn’t explain as they strode through the marble foyer and stepped inside the elevator.
    Sam rolled his head around, easing the kinks in his neck. He eyed the numbers clicking past. “Soft or hard?” he asked.
    Ed considered it for a moment. “How long’s it been?”
    â€œSeven months. At least.”
    â€œLast time, we kick in the door, go in hard?”
    â€œThink so. We’ve broken the chain at least twice.”
    â€œSoft then. I’ve already shot somebody tonight. Got it out of my system.”
    The elevator doors opened on the top floor. They stepped out onto plush red carpet and followed the hall to the end. Sam checked his watch. Three in the morning. If their past visits were any indication, David Thatcher should be just about partied out by now, and they would be catching him either unconscious or just about to pass out.
    Ed rapped briskly on the door and held his star up to the peephole, blocking them from sight. No answer. Ed knocked again. “Mr. Thatcher? Chicago PD. Open up, sir.”
    From behind the door, a groggy voice said, “What, what do you want?”
    â€œPlease open the door, Mr. Thatcher.”
    The door opened, but only a crack. David’s eye appeared. “What the hell is going on?” Acting tough.
    Sam threw his shoulder into the door, forcing it to open the length of the chain. “Hey, David. How ya doing?”
    â€œOh, fuck. Not you two.” He tried to shut the door, but Sam’s foot was in the