A Bad Night's Sleep

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Authors: Michael Wiley
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Hard-Boiled
that looked like it could’ve been skinned from leopards, a lot of dark wood on the walls, and heavy art-deco chandeliers. Bill was a big man but the room seemed to swallow him as he waited in his wheelchair just inside the door.
    As I stepped in, a half smile formed on his lips. When Lucinda stepped in after me, the smile broke. He glanced again at her and then at me. “What the hell is she doing here?”
    Lucinda crossed her arms over her chest. “Good to see you, Bill.”
    Bill’s lips cracked into a little smile again. “Yeah, good to see you too, Lucinda.” Like he might mean it.
    “That’s better.”
    “Now, take a walk, will you?” he said to her.
    Lucinda looked at me.
    I shrugged.
    “Screw yourselves, then,” she said and she stepped back outside.
    “Sweet girl. Why did you bring her?”
    “We work together.”
    He shook his head. “Not on this you don’t. We’ve already got three police officers dead and two wounded. I don’t want her to get hurt.”
    “Me, on the other hand—”
    “That’s right, you on the other hand.”
    “What do you have for me?” I asked.
    He pulled a manila envelope from his jacket. “Dates, times, and places where thefts occurred, totaling a hundred sixty thousand dollars. Police reports verifying the thefts. Bank records showing deposits into accounts in Johnson’s name.” He said it without pleasure.
    “Was Johnson really involved in any of it?” I said.
    “Not a bit.”
    “You’re right about Monroe,” I said. “He’ll kill Johnson when he finds out he’s been cutting him out.”
    “That’s the plan.”
    I shook my head. “Who was watching us at Daley Plaza?”
    “They’re not in the department,” said Bill.
    “FBI?”
    “Could be. If they are, it’s news to me.”
    “Why not invite them into the investigation?” I said.
    He laughed. “The FBI? No thanks. They wouldn’t approve of this kind of cleanup.”
    “Then I’m not getting involved if they’re watching.”
    “You were involved the moment you pulled the trigger at Southshore.”
    “Then I’m not getting in deeper.”
    “Probably a good idea,” he said and held out the envelope.
    “You’re a bastard,” I said and took it.
    He laughed. “If you decide you really want out, dump the envelope in the garbage. If you stay in, be careful how you use the documents. Monroe will kill you instead of Johnson if he figures out what you’re up to.”
    “Why would I stay in with a sales job like that?”
    He stared me in the eyes. “What’s left of you if you quit?”
    It was a good question—a hard one but good—and I figured there was love and worry in it. So I called him a bastard again, stuck the envelope inside my jacket, and left him there.
    Lucinda was outside, leaning against the building, arms crossed to keep warm. We walked back toward Daley Plaza. Lucinda raised her eyebrows. “Well?”
    “He’s afraid you’ll get hurt,” I said.
    “He’s a bastard.”
    “That’s what I told him. But he’s our bastard.”
    At the Plaza, we listened to the mayor’s speech from the back of the crowd. He was talking about good men and women who put the safety of the city above their own and about the sacrifices they and their families made every day and the bigger sacrifices that a few of them made on especially terrible days, sacrifices that could never be repaid. I glanced at the row of wives and children and wished that I hadn’t.
    We turned away as the mayor finished his comments and a bugle started playing sad and soulful.
    “What else did Bill tell you?” Lucinda said.
    I wondered if Bill was right. Lucinda could get hurt and maybe I should keep my mouth shut. But she would never forgive me if I did. “He gave me the papers I need to bring Johnson down.”
    “Let’s see.”
    “In the car.”
    “Do you trust him?”
    “He’s my oldest friend. He’s always been there for me.”
    “Except when you were drinking heavily.”
    “He came around on that when his wife

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