Free Street Music by Jack Kilborn

Street Music is my favorite story of any I’ve written. Phineas Trout was the hero of my first novel, an unpublished mystery called
Dead On My Feet
, written back in 1992. It was unabashedly hardboiled, and it helped me land my first agent. The book never sold, probably because it was unabashedly hardboiled. Phin starred in two more unpublished novels, and then I relegated him to the role of sidekick in the Jack Daniels series, which did wind up selling. I’m intrigued by the idea of a hero dying of cancer, and how having no hope left could erode a man’s morality. I wrote this story right after selling
Whiskey Sour
, and soon after sold it to
Ellery Queen.
    M itch couldn’t answer me with the barrel of my gun in his mouth, so I pulled it out.
    “I don’t know! I swear!”
    If that was the truth, I had no use for it. After three days of questioning dozens of hookers, junkies, and other fine examples of Chicago’s populace, Mitch was my only link to Jasmine. I was seriously jonesing; I hadn’t done a line since Thursday. Plus, the pain in my side felt like a baby alligator was trying to eat its way out of my pancreas.
    I gave Mitch’s chin a little tap with the butt of the Glock.
    “I really don’t know!”
    “She’s one of yours, Mitch. I thought big, tough pimps like you ran a tight ship.”
    His black face was shiny with sweat and a little blood. Sure, he was scared. But he wasn’t stupid. Telling me Jasmine’s whereabouts would put a dent in his income.
    I raised the gun back to hit him again.
    “She went rogue on me, man! She ditched!”
    I paused. If Jasmine had left Mitch, his reluctance to talk about it made some sense. Mack Daddies don’t like word to get out that they’re losing their game.
    “How much money do you have on you?”
    “About four hundos. It’s yours, man. Front pants pocket.”
    “I’m not putting my hand in there. Take it out.”
    Mitch managed to stop shaking long enough to retrieve a fat money clip. I took the cash, and threw the clip—a gold emblem in the shape of a female breast–onto the sidewalk.
    “You letting me go?” Mitch asked.
    “You’re free to pimp another day. Go run to the bus station, see if you can find some other fresh meat to bust out.”
    When I let go of his lapels, his spine seemed to grow back. He adjusted the collar on his velour jump suit and made sure his baseball hat was tilted to the correct odd angle.
    “Ain’t like that. I treat my girls good. Plenty of sweet love and all the rock they can smoke.”
    “Leave. Now. Before I decide to do society a favor.”
    He sneered, spun on his three hundred dollar sneakers, and did his pimp strut away from me.
    I probably should have killed him; I had too many enemies already. But, tough as I am, shooting fourteen-year-old kids in the back isn’t my style.
    The four hundred was enough to score some coke, but not very much. I thought about calling Manny, my dealer, and getting a sample to help kill the pain, but every minute I wasted gave Jasmine a chance to slip farther away.
    Pain relief would have to wait. I pressed my hand to my left side and exited the alley and wondered where the hell I should look next.
    I’d already checked Jasmine’s apartment, her boyfriend’s apartment, her parent’s house, her known pick-up spots, and three local crack houses.
    To rule out other options, I had to call in a marker.
    It was September, about seventy with clear skies, so I took a walk down the block. The first payphone I came to had gum jammed in the coin slot. The second one smelled like a urinal, but I made do.
    “Violent Crimes, Daniels.”
    “Hi, Jack. Phineas Troutt.”
    “Phin? Haven’t seen you at the pool hall lately. Afraid I’ll kick your ass?”
    My lips twisted in a tight grin. Jacqueline Daniels was a police Lieutenant who busted me a few years back. We had an on-again-off-again eight ball game Monday nights. I’d missed a few.
    “I’m sort of preoccupied with something.”
    “Chemo