Leo came in at three in the morning. “No sign of Clay, but his man’s at home.”
“Drake? You saw him?”
“Yeah. And he’s got a girl with him.”
“Blonde?” asked Sam.
“Yeah. Real small.”
“Far out . . . real young?”
“Probably eight or ten years old. Took Drake’s hand when they walked up to the door.”
“Clay’ll be coming,” Aaron said with certainty. “When you got his kind of twist, you don’t get away from it.” When he said ‘twist,’ he made a twisting motion with his fist.
Sam nodded. “Another night,” he said. “Tomorrow night.”
“Did you hear about the cop?” asked Aaron.
Leo took off his jacket and tossed it at the couch. “The woman? Yeah. It’s Shadow.”
“God damn, the fool will ruin us,” Aaron said bitterly.
“One more night,” said Leo. “One or two.”
“Killing cops is bad medicine,” Aaron said. He looked at his cousin. “If it’s gonna happen with Clay, it’s gotta be soon. We might start thinking about taking him at the hotel or on the street.”
Sam shook his head. “The plan is right. Don’t fuck with the plan. Clay’s got a platoon of bodyguards with machine guns. They’d flat kill us on the street and Clay’d be a hero. If we can get him at Drake’s, he’ll be alone. And he won’t be no hero.”
“Tomorrow night,” said Leo. “I’d bet on it.”
Shadow Love hid in a condemned building six blocks out from the Loop. The building, once a small hotel, became a flophouse and finally was condemned for its lack of maintenance and the size of its rats. Norway rats: the fuckin’ Scandinavians ran everything in the state, Shadow Love thought.
There were a few other men living in the building, but Shadow Love never really saw them. Just shambling figures darting between rooms, or moving furtively up and down the stairs. When you took a room, you closed the door and blocked it with a four-by-four from a pile of lumber on the first floor. You braced one end of the timber against the door, one end against the opposite wall. It wasn’t foolproof, but it was pretty good.
The three-story structure had been built around a central atrium with a skylight at the top. When the men had to move their bowels—a rare event, most of them were winos—they simply hung over the atrium railing and let go. That kept the upper rooms reasonably tidy. Nobody stayed long on the bottom floors.
When Shadow Love moved in, he brought a heavy coat, a plastic air mattress, a cheap radio with earphones, and his gun. Groceries were slim: boxes of crackers, cookies, a can of Cheez Whiz, and a twelve-pack of Pepsi.
After the shooting, Shadow Love had run down the stairs, tried to stroll through the lobby, then hurried on to the Volvo. He drove it until he was sure he couldn’t have been followed, and dumped it. He stopped once at a convenience store to buy food and then settled into the hideout.
There was nothing on the radio for almost two hours. Then a report that Detective Lillian Rothenburg had been shot. Not killed but shot. More than he’d hoped for. Maybe he got her . . . .
Then, a half-hour later, word that she was on the operating table. And two hours after that, a prognosis: The doctors said she’d live.
Shadow Love cursed and pulled the coat around him. The nights were getting very cold. Despite the coat, he shivered.
The bitch was still alive.