Buster's neighborhood was several rungs above Ajax's as far as quality of life went. No junkies shooting up in the alleys, hookers on the corners, or roving gangs of teens with firearms.
There were, however, lots of kids drunk out of their minds, moving in great human waves from bar to bar. The area was a hot spot for night life, and Friday night meant the partying was mandatory.
Even the hydrants were taken, so I parked in an alley, blocking the entrance. I took the duffle bag from the passenger seat and climbed out into the night air.
The temp had dropped, and I imagined I could smell Lake Michigan, even though it was miles away. There were voices, shouting, laughing, cars honking. I stood in the shadows.
The security door on Buster's apartment had a lock that was intact and functioning, unlike Ajax's. I spotted someone walking out and caught the door before it closed, and then I took the elevator to the seventh floor.
The cop impersonation wouldn't work this time; Jasmine was on the run and wouldn't open the door for anybody.
But I had a key.
It was another online purchase. There were thirty-four major lock companies in the US, and they made ninety-five percent of all the locks in America. These lock companies each had a few dozen models, and each of the models had a master key that opened up every lock in the series.
Locksmiths could buy these master keys. So could anyone with a credit card who knew the right website.
The lock on Buster's apartment was a Schlage. I took a large key ring from my duffel bag and got the door open on the third try.
Jasmine and Buster were on a futon, watching TV. I was on him before he had a chance to get up.
When he reached for me, I grabbed his wrist and twisted. Then, using his arm like a lever, I forced him face down into the carpeting.
“Buster!”
I didn't have time to deal with Jasmine yet, so she got a kick in the gut. She went down. I took out roll of duct tape and secured Buster's wrists behind him. When that was done, I wound it around his legs a few times.
“Jazz, run!”
His mouth was next.
Jasmine had curled up in the corner of the room, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth. She was a little thing, no older than Ajax, wearing sweatpants and an extra large t-shirt. Her black hair was pulled back and fear distorted her features.
I made it worse by showing her my Glock.
“Tell me about Artie Collins.”
She shrunk back, making herself smaller.
“You're going to kill me.”
“No one is killing anyone. Why does Artie want you dead?”
“The book.”
“What book?”
She pointed to the table next to the futon. I picked up a ledger, scanned a few pages.
Financial figures, from two of Artie's clubs. I guessed that these were the ones the IRS didn't see.
“Stupid move, lady. Why'd you take these from him?”
“He's a pig,” she spat, anger overriding terror. “Artie doesn't like it straight. He's a real freak. He did things to me, things no one has ever done.”
“So you stole this?”
“I didn't know what it was. I wanted to hurt him, it was right there in the dresser. So I took it.”
Gutsy, but dumb. Stealing from one of the most connected guys in the Midwest was a good way to shorten your life expectancy.
“Artie is offering ten thousand dollars for you. And there's a bonus if it's messy.”
I put the book in the duffle bag, and then removed a knife.
#
Artie Collins was a slug, and everyone knew it. He had his public side; the restaurants, the riverboat gambling, the night clubs, but anyone worth their street smarts knew he also peddled kiddie porn, smack cut with rat poison, and owned a handful of cops and judges.
Standing before me, he even looked like a slug, from his sweaty, fat face, to the sharkskin suit in dark brown, of all colors.
“I don't know you,” he said.
“Better that way.”
“I like to know who I'm doing business with.”
“This is a one time deal. Two ships in the night.”
He seemed to consider that, and laughed.
“Okay then, Mystery Man. You told my boys you had something for me.”
I reached into my jacket. Artie didn't flinch; he knew his men had frisked me earlier and taken my gun. I took out a wad of Polaroids and handed them over.
Artie glanced through them, smiling like a carved pumpkin. He flashed one at me. Jasmine naked and tied up, the knife going in.
“That's a good one. A real Kodak moment.”
I said nothing. Artie finished viewing my camera work and carefully stuck the pics in his blazer.
“These are nice, but I still need to know where she's at.”
“The bottom of the Chicago river.”
“I meant, where she was hiding. She had something of mine.”
I nodded, once again going into my jacket. When Artie saw the ledger I thought he'd crap sunshine.
“She told me some things when I was working on her.”
“I'll bet she did,” Artie laughed.
He gave the ledger a cursory flip through, then tossed it onto his desk. I took a breath, let it out slow. The moment stretched. Finally, Artie waggled a fat, hot dog finger at me.
“You're good, my friend. I could use a man of your talents.”
“I'm freelance.”
“I offer benefits. A 401K. Dental. Plus whores and drugs, of course. I'd pay some good money to see you work a girl over like you did to that whore.”
“You said you'd also pay good money for whoever brought you proof of Jasmine's death.”
He nodded, slowly.
“You sure you don't want to work for me?”
“I don't play well with others.”
Artie made a show of walking in a complete circle around me, checking me out. This wasn't going down as easy as I'd hoped.
“Brave man, to come in here all by yourself.”
“My partner's outside.”
“Partner, huh? Let's say, for the sake of argument, I had my boys kill you. What would your partner do? Come running into my place, guns blazing?”
He chuckled, and the two goons in the room with us giggled like stoned teenagers.
“No. He'd put the word out on the street that you're a liar. Then the next time you need a little favor from the outside, your reputation as a square guy would be sullied.”
“Sullied!” Artie laughed again. He had a laugh like a frog. “That's rich. Would you work for a man with a sullied reputation, Jimmy?”
The thug named Jimmy shrugged, wisely choosing not to answer.
“You're right, of course.” Artie said when the chuckles faded. “I have a good rep in this town, and my word is bond. Max.”
The other thug handed me a briefcase. Leather. A good weight.
