Free Dirty Fire by Earl Merkel

and before we had the chance to convince the state’s attorney to re-file, a pair of Chicago cops found Bobby Calderon. He was in a soiled burgundy dumpster behind a North Halsted Street restaurant, and had been there long enough to attract the local rats.
    His obituary had described him as a “prominent, well-connected and successful Lake Tower contractor.” Whether out of deference to the deceased’s family or for less noble reasons, the newspaper had not detailed the extent of Calderon’s connections or the reasons behind his success.
    “Big difference,” I observed, “between going to jail and having somebody park a half-dozen .22 slugs in the back of your head.”
    Again, the silence fell heavily. After what felt like an eternity, Chaz spoke.
    “So, what’s up? What do you want? I heard you were back on the city payroll, J.D. I hear from now on maybe all our big cases are gonna get assigned to firemen and shady ex-cops. No offense, of course—I’m just quoting. Hell, I know you’re the cleanest thing since Spic ‘n Span.”
    He waved his hand, a dismissive gesture.
    “Hey, everybody’s talking about how you and Cieloczki jerked the Levinstein murder right out from under the department. Can’t say us cops are all that happy about it—kind of makes us look like we’re too stupid to run the case, you know? Except even us dumb cops know it means that all of a sudden you are tight as a tick with Evans. That’s the big leagues, at least in this town. So what could you possibly want from me, ol’ buddy?”
    His voice had risen, and at any moment I expected to see Junie’s face at the window.
    “Chaz, right now it’s me, Gil Cieloczki and Evans,” I said. “I need somebody who knows the score…somebody I know is on my side.”
    Trombetta snorted. “On your side, hell,” he said. “You mean on the inside, don’t you?” He thought for a minute. “Santori in on all this?”
    I nodded, and Trombetta’s face darkened.
    “Damn it, J.D.! You never learn! You just have to screw with Nederlander, don’t you?”
    “Everybody’s got their little hang-up,” I said. “Nederlander’s mine.”
    “You know something, J.D.? It’s time you stopped trying to make up for your old man. It’s twenty years, partner; get over it.”
    My partner’s tone took me aback, and I decided to treat it as a jest.
    “Gosh, thanks for the insightful analysis, Doctor Trombetta. When’d you get so deep into pop psychology?”
    “I think the reason you’re so pissed at Nederlander doesn’t have anything to do with whether he’s bent. It’s because they can’t catch him at it—you know, like they caught your dad. Tell me I’m wrong.”
    “I don’t even think about it anymore. Everybody took something under the table in those days.”
    Chaz’s face did not change its expression, and I frowned.
    “Ease up, buddy. Look, I need to know: can I count on you, or what?”
    Trombetta looked hard at me.
    “You’re an idiot,” he said flatly. “Look, you don’t have any friends in the department. You screw with Nederlander, you’re screwing with their money, man—with their goddam lives. They got bills to pay, families to feed, you know?”
    “Chaz,” I said. “They’re dirty. They’re cops and they’re dirty.”
    “Exactly who’s getting hurt, J.D.?”
    “Where does it end? They’re past merely scamming phony insurance claims. I hear the stories: shakedowns, ‘private’ vice raids where nobody seems to file a report. So what’s on the menu for tomorrow? At the very least, they’ve got to keep it covered up. And I know, man— I know.”
    “Yeah, you know. Then you better know that I got no reason to help you, Davey.” He looked at me from under his thick eyebrows. In his voice was something not quite defiant and not quite ashamed.
    “Look—you want to go hunting with Santori, I guess I can’t talk you out of it. But I’m not going to get dragged into it, either.”
    I shook my head. “You