Free Street Music by Jack Kilborn Page A

again?”
    “No, work. Listen, you know what I do, right?”
    “You’re a freelance thug.”
    “I prefer the term problem solver. I keep it clean.”
    “I’m guessing that’s because we haven’t caught you in the act, yet.”
    “And you never will. Look, Jack, I need a favor.”
    “I can’t do anything illegal, Phin. You know that.”
    “Nothing shady. I just have to rule some stuff out. I’m looking for a woman. Hooker. Name is Janet Cumberland, goes by the street nick Jasmine. Any recent arrests or deaths with that name?”
    There was a pause on the line. I could only guess Jack’s thoughts.
    “Give me half an hour,” she decided. “Got a number where I can call you back?”
    I killed time at a hot dog stand, sipping black coffee mixed with ten crushed Tylenol tablets; they worked faster when they were pre-dissolved.
    The phone rang eighteen minutes later.
    “No one at the morgue matching that name, and her last arrest was three months ago.”
    “Do you have a place of residence?”
    Jack read off the apartment number I’d already checked.
    “How about known acquaintances?”
    “She’s one of Mitch D’s girls. Been arrested a few times with another prostitute named Georgia Williamson, street name is Ajax. Kind of an odd name for a hooker.”
    “She one of Mitch’s, too?”
    “Lemme check. No, looks like she’s solo.”
    “Got an addy?”
    Jack gave it to me.
    “There’s also a note in Janet’s file, says her parents are looking for her. That your angle? Even if you find her, the recit rate with crack is over 95 percent. They’ll stick her in rehab and a week later she’ll be on the street again.”
    “Thanks for the help, Jack. Next time we play pool, beer’s on me.”
    “You’re on, Phin. How’s the—”
    “Hurts,” I interrupted. “But my doc says it won’t for much longer.”
    “The tumor is shrinking? That’s great news!”
    I didn’t correct her. The tumor was growing like a weed. I wouldn’t be in pain much longer because I didn’t have much longer.
    Which is why I had to find Jasmine, and fast.
    She had to die first.
    Georgia Williams, aka Ajax, lived on 81st and Stoney, in a particularly mean part of Chicago’s South Side. Night was rolling in, bringing with it the bangers, junkies, ballers, wanna-bes, and thugs. None of them were thrilled to see a white guy on their turf, and some flashed their iron as I drove by.
    Ajax’s place wasn’t easy to find, and asking for directions didn’t strike me as a smart idea. Maybe in neighborhoods this bad, whole buildings got stolen.
    Finally, I narrowed it down to a decrepit apartment without any street number. I parked in front, set the alarm on my Bronco, and made sure I had one in the chamber.
    “You lost, white boy?”
    I ignored the three gang members—Gangster Disciples according to their colors—and headed for the building. The front door had a security lock, but it was long broken. There was a large puddle of something in front of the staircase, which I walked around.
    Ajax lived in 206. I took the stairs two at a time, followed a hall decorated with graffiti and vomit, and found her door.
    “Georgia Williams? Chicago PD!”
    Another door opened opposite me, fearful old eyes peeking out through the crack.
    “Is Ms. Williams home?” I asked the neighbor.
    The door closed again.
    I kicked away a broken bottle that was near my feet, and knocked again.
    “Georgia Williams! Open the door!”
    “You got ID?”
    A woman’s voice, cold and firm. I held a brass star, $12.95 on eBay, up to the peephole.
    “Where’s your partner?” asked the voice.
    “Watching the car. We’re looking for a friend of yours. Jasmine. She’s in big trouble.”
    “She sure is.”
    “Can I come in?”
    I heard a deadbolt snick back. Then another. The door swung inward, revealing a black girl of no more than sixteen. She wore jeans, a white blouse. Her face was garishly made-up. Stuck to her hip was a sleeping infant.
    “Can’t be