A half a block down, a lonesome El train sped down the overpass, rattling the windows and walls of the nearby fleabag apartments. It was gone in an instant but not without waking the portion of the neighborhood incapable of acclimating to the regular noise of rattling metal and wood and speeding engines.
Inside 1465 West Kemper, Apartment 13, Edward Leer sat on the edge of the fold out cot that rested in the corner of his office, his eyes half closed and looking out of the window. Since before the crack of dawn, the rain had been coming down in steady, slow drops. A cold March rain, the kind that chilled men to the bone and had sent not a few soldiers home in body bags--victims of hypothermia and walking pneumonia. Mornings like these, Leer could still feel his own brush with mortality in France a few years back, weighing on his lungs like lead ingots. Sleep had eluded Edward that night, as it had many times in recent weeks.
He looked around the 200 square foot space that had served both as home and office for the past three months and took another swig of bourbon from his hip flask. You could only live with so much reality in a day. Edward looked to the manila envelope sitting on his desk. He had had his fill of reality for a while.
As the Bourbon finally started working its smoky tendrils into the detective's weary mind, a sharp strident rapping came from the wood and frosted glass door. Leer awoke from a doze with a jerk and snapped, "We're closed for business. Come back at a civilized hour."
The shadow behind the door paused for a moment, looking over his shoulder. "I'm afraid I have to insist, Detective Leer." The voice was soft, patrician, and laced with a melange of entitlement and irritation. "This is not a matter in which we have the luxury of time."
Leer swore under his breath and pulled himself off of the rusted, squeaking cot. He traversed the office in four long steps and flung open the door. A small, blond man dressed in a gray wool suit and matching fedora stood behind it, looking at Leer through muddy green eyes.
"Listen, pal," Leer said, "Sign says this here office opens at ten in the A.M. That's for everybody. Whatever it is you're heated up about ain't my lookout until I say it is."
The man's green eyes fluttered shut for a moment. "Look down," he said. "That's a Brevetatta. 22 Caliber. Not much, but fired into your liver it should do the trick." The blond stranger smiled an off kilter smile. "Is this enough to make my problem your problem, Detective Leer?"
Inside 1465 West Kemper, Apartment 13, Edward Leer sat on the edge of the fold out cot that rested in the corner of his office, his eyes half closed and looking out of the window. Since before the crack of dawn, the rain had been coming down in steady, slow drops. A cold March rain, the kind that chilled men to the bone and had sent not a few soldiers home in body bags--victims of hypothermia and walking pneumonia. Mornings like these, Leer could still feel his own brush with mortality in France a few years back, weighing on his lungs like lead ingots. Sleep had eluded Edward that night, as it had many times in recent weeks.
He looked around the 200 square foot space that had served both as home and office for the past three months and took another swig of bourbon from his hip flask. You could only live with so much reality in a day. Edward looked to the manila envelope sitting on his desk. He had had his fill of reality for a while.
As the Bourbon finally started working its smoky tendrils into the detective's weary mind, a sharp strident rapping came from the wood and frosted glass door. Leer awoke from a doze with a jerk and snapped, "We're closed for business. Come back at a civilized hour."
The shadow behind the door paused for a moment, looking over his shoulder. "I'm afraid I have to insist, Detective Leer." The voice was soft, patrician, and laced with a melange of entitlement and irritation. "This is not a matter in which we have the luxury of time."
Leer swore under his breath and pulled himself off of the rusted, squeaking cot. He traversed the office in four long steps and flung open the door. A small, blond man dressed in a gray wool suit and matching fedora stood behind it, looking at Leer through muddy green eyes.
"Listen, pal," Leer said, "Sign says this here office opens at ten in the A.M. That's for everybody. Whatever it is you're heated up about ain't my lookout until I say it is."
The man's green eyes fluttered shut for a moment. "Look down," he said. "That's a Brevetatta. 22 Caliber. Not much, but fired into your liver it should do the trick." The blond stranger smiled an off kilter smile. "Is this enough to make my problem your problem, Detective Leer?"
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