Sunday afternoon I met up with Prescott at the Shanghai Palace in the fancy Yorkville shopping district. I didn’t think he had a shift today, but it didn’t matter. He was a twenty-four-seven kind of cop.
The restaurant was half-full, and everything inside was red and brassy. There were five dishes of food on the table. He’d already started eating when I got there. Still, it was better than the cookie and iced tea he usually got me.
“I need a favor, Darren,” he said, flashing some half-chewed chow mein. “A big one.”
“Go on.” I loaded up my plate.
Prescott leaned closer, probably more for effect than because he thought anyone was listening. Our table was in the back corner near the kitchen. There was a fly caught between the curtain and the window, buzzing away. I was tempted to squash it.
“They’re putting pressure on me, Darren. The chief wants to break the drug trade in this city wide open, and he wants to do it before the election. I need to know how the coke’s getting in.”
“I’ll be watching,” I said between bites. “That’s all I can promise.” The food was tasty. There was actually chicken in the chicken balls, not the mystery meat you got in my neighborhood.
“Any of the executives could be doing the drug runs,” he said. “I doubt Tony Walker would trust anyone else with that kind of money. Whoever does it will probably have another guy or two with him for security. Not that it makes a difference. If the Demon’s Sons want to take them out, they’ll do it.”
“The who?”
“Demon’s Sons. A biker gang based south of the border. They’re Tony’s suppliers. They buy coke from their cartel connection in Mexico and ship it all over the U.S. and Canada. If you help me out with this one, I’ll give you a grand. How does that sound?”
“I don’t do it for the money, you know that. But my hand won’t shake when I take the cash.”
Prescott laughed and smacked the table. “You could be a cop one day.”
Now, that was over the top, even for Prescott. “Yeah, right. With my record.”
“Why not? I’d put in a word for you. And by then, I might be another rung or two up the ladder. You never know.” He drowned an egg roll in plum sauce and took a few bites. “So. Last time we met, you mentioned delivery trucks. You still think the coke gets in that way?”
“Could be. Or maybe it’s shipped up through the port.”
Prescott gripped the table. “Specifics, Darren. I need specifics. Not speculation.”
“I got you.” Guess Prescott really wanted that promotion. This wasn’t personal for him, though. Not like for me.
“Walker’s got to be laundering the money somehow,” Prescott said. “His name isn’t connected to any business we can find, but he has to be funneling it through some local businesses. Especially ones that deal with cash, like nail salons, car washes, clubs. Call me with anything you have, Darren. No detail’s too small.”
“There’s something you should know.” I swallowed. He definitely wasn’t going to like this. “The South Side Bloods have a new leader, Andre. He was Pistol’s—”
“I know who Andre is. That sly sonofabitch. We couldn’t even convict him on a possession charge, for fuck’s sake.”
“Well, Andre’s making a play for Tony’s territory. He must’ve found a new supplier, because their product is better than it used to be. Maybe better than Diamond Dust.”
Prescott rubbed his face, kind of like Kiki did when he was worn out. “That’s all we need. A new line into the city. And maybe a turf war. How long before it turns bloody?”
“Don’t know. Tony’s telling his men to stand down for now. Since Pup got locked up, he’s extra worried.”
“He should be.” Prescott shook his head, like he was trying to shake a bad memory. “I was a beat cop when Walker showed up ten years ago. Seemed like a new body turned up every week. Sometimes it was a rival dealer. Or their girlfriend. Or a kid hit by a stray bullet. It didn’t used to be that way, you know. There were always drugs, but it was never this bloody till he came around. There used to be a code, an unwritten rule among the drug dealers to keep the innocents out of the game. But for Walker, no one was off-limits.” His stare was intense. “I can’t wait to lock him up.”
Maybe I was wrong about Prescott. Maybe it was personal for him, too.