Calumet City by Charlie Newton

By Charlie Newton

Should be an ex-library booklet, with library markings, good points, and stamps.Has a few put on at the cover.Has fresh, unmarked pages. Binding is tight and in first-class condition.Buy with self assurance!

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I stumble, fogged on adrenaline and still smell like gas, just less so. Two more EMTs have Eric Jackson standing, but not under his own power. He looks loopy but his feet are moving, scuffing past the youngest of the dead GDs. I squeegee water and slick back my hair, trying to find steady, then recognize the sprawled body; I know the dead boy's mother. I turn back to help Cisco and his EMT. " I give him the finger. In your fucking dreams, homes. He shrugs at stupid and joins firemen running across the alley.

The perps sat on it, facing my dresser. Then probably stood—assholes—and looked close at the pictures wedged into the mirror's curved frame. Pictures that take up so much mirror there's no reflection, pictures of me caked in mud, arm-in-arm with rugby teammates Tracy Moens—a hardass, max-competitive, prima-bitch reporter with the Chicago Herald, and Julie McCoy, my best pal and owner of the L7 Bar. Pictures of me with my TAC crew at CPD picnics, Cisco and Sonny and Eric Jackson trying to look all gunfighter.

I miss one day and Ms. " Tracy and Julie are partners in the L7. They were lovers once, but no longer, at least that me and the public know about. I shrug, not wanting to get into my day, the stuff I did and saw. " She's much bigger than me, but I have a gun and mention that. " She grabs my hands. "Is this about the mayor? Talk to me. " So I do. But not about the body in the wall. I talk about the Gangster Disciple shooting, about knowing the kid, knowing his mom. All the shit you don't want to know, don't want to share, and don't want to relive after seeing it firsthand and then reporting it for eight goddamn hours to the wrinkle-free blazers.

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