27

The lower West Side had changed since Charlie Daley patrolled those streets. The Feds had RICO’d the entire 10th Street Gang eight years before, rounding up the worst of the worst and setting the stage for urban renewal. Location was everything, and with the neighborhood being so close to Downtown, Canalside, and the Elmwood Village, people had started snapping up the cheap real estate and began renovating. It was nothing to see a brand-new house that would have been on the market for hundreds of thousands in the suburbs sitting next to a derelict building. Millennials loved the funky urban vibe, being close to the arts scene, and the affordable prices.

Still, there were pockets of streets that hadn’t been revitalized yet, where the poor and old were isolated and the drugs and violence were kept contained. That’s where Lauren had found one of her witnesses from a stabbing last year, in the upper of a rundown house whose neighbors were gangbangers, addicts, and drunks. The woman had cooperated, despite what that meant on the streets, and was key in her friend’s murderer going to jail. As she and Daley rolled through the neighborhood, Lauren vaguely wondered where her witness was now. Whether she had stayed in Buffalo, or if she’d had gone back to Puerto Rico. Either way, Lauren would never know now because the cell number that she’d had for ten years as a detective had been changed. She didn’t want to think of all the calls going to her voicemail that would never be answered.

Charlie was wedged into the passenger seat of her Ford Escape. Even SUVs aren’t meant for guys his size, she thought, watching him squirm beneath the seat belt that threatened to strangle him. He had wanted to ride without wearing it until Lauren reminded him the car would angrily beep every thirty seconds until he was strapped in.

“I can’t even breathe wearing this Goddamn thing,” he griped, pulling the strap away from his chest as far as it would go.

“I couldn’t breathe when I had a knife in my lung,” she countered. “Stop being such a baby.”

“You always have to one-up me,” he said, then pointed. “Turn here. Go slow by the green house with the porch.”

She let up on the gas, coasting by the old flop house. At some point there had been a fire on the second floor; black scorch marks rose from the upper glassless windows. The house number, 453, was spray painted in red across the lower front, signaling it was marked for city demolition.

“I guess Sadie don’t live there no more,” Charlie said as they passed.

Lauren continued on, letting Charlie take the lead.

“Turn down Pennsylvania Street. There’s a place I want to check out.” The window was down, his arm hanging out, despite the cold that had crept in during the night, turning late November from brisk to chilly in hours. Charlie had changed out of his coveralls into a Buffalo Bills sweatshirt and jeans. He had the cuffs stuffed down into his tan work boots, like he used to do when he was on the job. It kept the critters off your legs, he used to tell her; the roaches will climb right up into your underwear if you don’t cut them off at the pass.

“Shouldn’t your partner be doing this with you?” he asked.

“He’s trying, but I’m still a control freak. I can’t just sit home and do nothing,” she replied, slowing down to look at some older women standing on the corner, all holding plastic shopping bags. They noticed and turned toward the SUV to stare back.

Charlie snickered. “It’s not like we don’t stick out in this Ford, not in this neighborhood, being this color. And you’re staring at them.”

“I probably look like a heroin hype out trying to score some drugs with her old sugar daddy.”

“I don’t like skinny broads. I’d have to fatten you up before I became your sugar daddy.”

“Duly noted.” Lauren smiled as they passed a middle-aged man pushing a shopping cart full of groceries down the sidewalk. Stalks of celery stuck out of one of the plastic bags as his head nodded in time to the music only he could hear coming from his earbuds.

“Pull over up here,” Charlie pointed to a spot at the curb. “We’ll just wait.”

Lauren did as she was told, pulling up in front of a vacant lot. She put the car in park, leaving it running. “What are we doing?”

He looked over at the houses a little farther up the block and repeated, “Just wait.”

Looking straight ahead, arm still hanging out the window, he sat watching the neighborhood foot traffic. Most people ignored them, a few gave them curious glances as they passed. Lauren looked at the digital clock on her dash: it was one thirty in the afternoon.

“How long are we going to sit here?” she asked.

“Wait for it,” he said patiently.

After another minute or so, Lauren watched a young woman with braids carefully pull apart an umbrella stroller on the porch of a double two houses up. She set it down on the sidewalk, then retreated into the house and came out with a toddler, who she protectively buckled in, tugging on the nylon straps to make sure they were secure. Walking with a look of dignified purpose, she pushed the stroller their way. Lauren could see the baby, a little girl dressed in a puffy pink coat, looking all around as her mother pushed her right up to the car.

“Hello,” the woman said to Charlie, her eyebrows knit together in a sort of determined resolve. She was in her early twenties, dark-skinned and beautiful, with high cheekbones. She was what Lauren’s mother would have called “big-boned”—broad in the shoulders and hips. She wore a long yellow dress with a fleece-lined denim jacket over it, and a thin gold chain hanging around her throat with a single letter done in script: S.

“This is my neighborhood,” she began in a calm, steady voice, “and I don’t know what you’re looking for, but you need to leave my street right now. There are children here.” She glanced down at her little girl who was staring at Lauren and Charlie like they were aliens. “And they don’t need to see addicts come to buy their drugs.”

Charlie didn’t smile but said in a tone of respect and deference, “We apologize for alarming you, but we’re not looking for drugs. Do you know where I can find Jackson Morgan?”

Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know Mr. Morgan?”

“We’re old friends. If you could point me in the right direction, I’d appreciate it. It’s important.”

“You? Friends with Mr. Morgan?”

Charlie nodded.

The woman looked Charlie and Lauren up and down, trying to determine if she should get involved. Charlie gave his best grin at the little girl in the stroller and waggled his fingers at her. She giggled and gave him a clumsy wave with her chubby hand.

“What’s your name?” the woman with the braids asked.

“Charlie Daley.”

“Charlie Daley” she repeated, to get it right. “Hold on.” The woman held one manicured finger up and pushed the stroller past the car. She stopped at the edge of the vacant lot and pulled a cell phone out of a maroon-colored shoulder bag. Lauren watched in the rearview mirror as she spoke to someone, her other arm crossed around her waist, her left foot rocking the stroller gently back and forth while she spoke. When she was done, she pushed the stroller back to Charlie’s side.

“Stay here,” was all she said, then continued with her walk down the street, her sunny yellow skirt swishing back and forth until she hit the corner and turned out of sight.

“Now what?” Lauren asked.

Charlie slipped a Glock 19 out of the inside of his jacket and rested it next to his enormous thigh. “Now we wait again. Just be ready.”

Lauren put her hand on the small gun in her jacket pocket but didn’t take it out. “Who’s Jackson Morgan?”

“Someone who knows things. He owes me a favor.”

“Do I want to know for what?”

He shook his head. “Probably not.”

Charlie began to hum the theme song from The Love Boat as they waited. Lauren only recognized it because during her home confinement this last week she’d taken up watching old TV shows during the day. The Love Boat had come on right after Bonanza.

The minutes ticked by. First a half hour, then forty-five minutes. All the while Charlie hummed television theme songs. Just when Lauren was about to suggest they call it a day, a black BMW came around the corner and slowly rolled up to the car.

Sleek, shiny, with intricate chrome rims, the vehicle purred like a cat as it idled next to Lauren’s. The passenger side window, tinted well past the legal limit, slid down. A thin black man about Charlie’s age wearing thick black-rimmed glasses peered into Lauren’s car, past her and on to Charlie. One of his eyes strayed off to the side, watery and pale. “Daley, is that really you? I heard you were dead.”

“Not dead, just retired,” Charlie said. “Which makes me good as dead.”

Giving a knowing chuckle, the other man smiled. “I consider myself retired, too, but I still have to look after the neighborhood. Make sure everyone is doing what they’re supposed to be doing. I got a call you needed to talk to me. I was concerned. It’s been a long time, Daley. A long time.”

“Seems like we’ve been talking on this same street corner since horse and buggies.”

“It does seem that way,” Jackson Morgan agreed. “It’s nice to know someone else remembers how things used to be.”

There was a moment where the two of them just regarded each other. Old soldiers, Lauren thought. Old soldiers who fought on different sides.

It was Charlie who broke the silence. “Can I talk to you alone?”

“Sure thing, Daley.” He turned to his driver. “Pull up.”

The driver, a young guy with the word HONEST tattooed across his neck, pulled the BMW in front of Lauren’s Ford and parked. Charlie slid Lauren his gun and told her, “Wait here. This will only take a second.”

“Charlie, wait—” She tried to slow his roll, but he was out of her SUV, meeting up with Morgan on the sidewalk. Slipping out of the driver’s seat, the neck-tattooed friend of Morgan’s leaned against the car, watching the two men carefully. She couldn’t see the telltale bulge of a gun on him, but she knew if she got out he wouldn’t see hers either. She could see he was tense, like a coiled spring, and that made her nervous. No one knew they were here. And he could take Charlie out before she could get a shot off.

She turned her attention to the two old men. Lauren knew she was skinny, but Morgan looked like he might blow away if Charlie exhaled too hard. There was a toughness about him though, a calm certainty that said Morgan was a dangerous man. In all her years as a cop, she’d never seen or heard of Jackson Morgan. Now she watched as the two men, both approaching seventy, stood on the street corner, their white-haired heads almost touching as they discussed their business. Charlie in his working man’s jeans and Morgan in a neat gray pinstripe suit.

She gripped the gun at her side, ready in case things went bad. Lauren realized her heart was pounding in her chest; the adrenaline of the job was flooding back into her system.

After what seemed like an eternity, they shook hands, Charlie slipping something into Morgan’s, and they clapped each other on the back. Charlie walked back to the SUV, hands stuffed in his pockets. Morgan got in his own ride, waited until Charlie got into Lauren’s vehicle, then had his driver back up alongside of Lauren again.

“Thanks for your help, Morgan,” Charlie told him.

“Young lady,” he said addressing Lauren for the first time. “This here is one of the most honorable men I’ve ever had the pleasure of doing my business against. Daley, good luck. But don’t you come back here, okay?”

“You’ve been more than gracious. Take care of yourself.”

“I always do,” he laughed, sliding the glass back up. “I always do.”

The luxury car pulled off in a squeal of tires.

“Who was that?” Lauren demanded, finally letting go of the gun.

Reaching over, Charlie stashed his Glock in his waistband, fluffing his shirt over it. “Just drive and I’ll tell you.”

She pulled out, turning the opposite way Jackson Morgan’s car had gone.

“Morgan ran the numbers for the entire city in the seventies and eighties. He was over on the East Side back when the numbers were huge money. Lots of payoffs to police and politicians. Morgan kept a low profile, always smart enough to stay one step ahead. The few times he did get arrested, the charges never stuck. He had his hand in everything back then. I remember chasing his guys around when I was a rookie cop.”

“And now?”

Charlie shrugged. “He keeps his toe in the water. The numbers are still around, a lot of the older folks still play, but not like they used to; now that there’s a lotto machine in every street corner deli. He still gets his cut from the gang bangers on drugs, guns, and prostitution, I’m sure.”

“How have I never heard of him?”

“When everything went to shit during the crack wars in the early nineties, he went underground, let the drug runners shoot it out, played from the sidelines. But us old-timers, we knew who was calling the shots from afar.”

“Does he know where Rita is?”

“He’ll find out. I gave him my cell number. He’ll call, but you might as well take me home now. He’s in no rush, and my back is screaming from all the shoveling I did today.” He reached down and massaged his lower spine. “You gonna tell that partner of yours what we’re up to?”

“I’ll wait. What if she’s dead or he can’t find her? Besides, it sounds like she’ll talk to you. Maybe not Reese and his new temporary partner, Joy Walsh. I don’t want to distract them with a wild-goose chase.”

She made a left and headed for Niagara Street. The traffic was picking up, more so toward the Peace Bridge, which was backed up. She could see the line of cars stopped on the bridge on their way to Canada in her rearview mirror. “You really think Morgan will call?”

He nodded with a grim certainty. “Yup. He’ll call. I’ll clear my grave-cleaning schedule. Tomorrow you’re going to meet my old friend, Rita Walton.”