“R & B Ramp Services,” Pat answers. “Windy City’s maintenance vendor. Also Tony’s clients.”
Larose nods his understanding. “Irving was also peddling the possibility of bad fuel. Her source wants the fuel vendor to look bad, too.”
“Yeah, but it’s pretty common knowledge that AAA Avgas is all mobbed up,” I say. “They hardly need to be tainted in the public eye, do they?”
“No, they don’t,” Larose agrees thoughtfully while Maiko swoops in and clears the table. We decline her offer of dessert.
“I think Billy and Rick were the primary targets of Irving’s story,” I mutter angrily after Maiko walks away. “It really pisses me off that she put Billy and Rick in bed with Avgas.”
“Pretty clever ploy to paint your guys as common crooks,” Pat says when her eye settles on me. “Who might want to do that?”
The pieces of the puzzle settle firmly into place. “My money is on the bastards at Windy City.” Sooner or later, it’s a sure bet that Billy and Rick are going to find themselves in court against their Windy City pals, who have just fired the opening salvo in what promises to be a nasty battle to shape public opinion.
Chapter Six
Francesco Valenti pokes his head out the back door of his Liberty Street home. “Coffee?” he asks Ed Stankowski.
Ed shoots a look to his fossil partner for the day, Max Maxwell, who is a granite block of retired Chicago PD sergeant with a graying military brush cut. Max is seated on the opposite side of the patio from Ed. They both wear jeans and short-sleeve, police-department-logoed golf shirts with well-worn leather shoulder holsters holding Glock pistols.
“Coffee?” Ed asks.
“Nah, just makes me hafta piss,” Max grumbles.
Ed smiles at Francesco and holds up a single finger. “Just one, pal. Thanks.”
“The guy makes a hell of a sandwich!” Max says after Francesco disappears back into the house. It’s his first day here. Sharing his sunflower seeds with Deano has made him a fast canine friend. The dog is lounging in the grass a couple of feet away from Max, patiently waiting for his new pal to toss another sunflower seed his way.
They’ve just finished paninis piled high with every Italian cold cut known to mankind, compliments of Francesco, who has insisted on feeding the fossils lunch every day. He’d gotten downright pissy the one time a fossil brought a sandwich from home.
“Seems like a nice enough guy, too,” Max adds.
Ed belches and slaps his stomach. “Yeah, he’s good people. We’ve been able to shoot the shit quite a bit over the past week. Interesting guy.”
Max frowns and digs a hand into his ever-present bag of Spitz sunflower seeds, causing Deano to go on point. “Seems strange to be talking that way about a guy who killed a cop, don’t it?”
Ed has no qualms about being in Francesco’s corner. He’d initially been a little conflicted about protecting a cop killer, but Jake Plummer considers Francesco’s exoneration a righteous acquittal, and Jake’s word is gold with Ed. The story about how Francesco had rescued his sister and put down the sack of shit who raped and kidnapped her also earned him some serious props with the retired detective. Taking down a mobster face-to-face to save a loved one at age twenty or thereabouts took some balls. Too bad Jake won’t let me share that story with the fossils, Ed thinks. The guys would appreciate what Francesco did and would feel better about being here.
He looks Max in the eye. “Andrew O’Reilly was a sad excuse for a cop.”
“Can’t argue that point,” Max mutters.
Their heads snap toward the crack of splintering wood at the back of the yard. The old cops are still frozen in place when a figure wearing a black balaclava steps around the corner of the garage.
The man—it’s gotta be a man judging by the gait and build, Ed thinks as his mental synapses fire to register the deadly risk they’re facing—looks around the yard, his eyes following the arc traced by a handgun thrust ahead of him in a two-fisted hold. The turning head stops at Ed. The gun follows. Ed is reaching for the pistol in his shoulder holster as the intruder’s gun barrel settles on him. People weren’t shitting me. That fucking gun barrel looks ten feet wide.
A streaking Deano shoots past the rose garden and launches himself at the attacker. The dog’s jaws clamp shut on the shooter’s biceps in the same instant the man pulls the trigger—a fraction of a second too late. Ed spins around with the impact of the bullet and topples off the edge of the patio into a rose bush while a bolt of fire rockets up his arm. The crack of more gunfire permeates into his brain, accompanied by the fierce snarling of Deano. The shooting stops in the same moment that the dog’s growl is abruptly cut off. It’s replaced with a pitiable whimper before the back gate slams shut.
When the yard falls silent, Ed is face down in the dirt, gritting his teeth and squeezing his burning biceps with his good hand.
“Max!” he cries out frantically as his eyes track across the patio. A battered pair of Reebok cross-trainers stop a couple of feet away from Ed’s eyes a moment later. I hope to hell those belong to Max.
“Hang in there, brother,” Max says as he kneels down and pushes his face in front of Ed’s. “Just the arm wound?”
“Just?” Ed moans through clenched teeth.
“That’s it?” Max asks sharply as his eyes lift to survey the yard.
Ed finally gets it. Max isn’t about to piss around with a nonlethal wound while the threat of an active shooter persists, no matter how much the fucking thing hurts. Ed nods and waves Max away.
“What happen? I hear the shots!” Francesco shouts as he bursts through the back door. His wild eyes quickly lock on Ed. “You are shot?”
No fucking kidding. Ed shoots a disbelieving look at Francesco and shouts, “Get back inside, you dopey
