Nine Fingers Read Online Free PDF

that he was impatient to get
     on with it, or that he had all the time in the world. It was like he was excited, and also bored. And it wasn’t like two opposite
     expressions flickering back and forth, but more like wearing both on his face at once.
    “We’ll be in touch,” he said. The other cops were wrapping it up as well. He stood up and slowly pushed his chair back in.
    Louie, who manages the club, didn’t seem to know what to do, and kept looking at the cops, trying to make eye contact with
     one of them. The tall cop saw him and stepped over.
    “Looks like you’d better call it a night. You got insurance, right? I was you, I’d get some plywood and some nails and at
     least close it up temporarily until you can get a glazier in in the morning. Doubt you can reach one this time of night.”
    “A…a…glacier?” Louie knows how to pour a decent drink and how to count the house, but he’s not exactly Mensa material.
    “A glazier, a glass guy. There’s a place down off Sixteenth Street if you need a reference.”
    “No, I got the number of the guy who installed it last time. I can call them.”
    “Don’t leave anything in the register or behind the bar. This is a safe neighborhood, but…” The guy wasn’t looking at
     Louie; his eyes seemed to be scanning the long rows of bottles behind the bar, almost as if he were cataloging them.
    “I’ll stay here myself tonight,” Louie said. “I got protection.” He nodded toward the bar.
    “That’s nice for you,” the cop said. “You have a permit to go along with it?”
    Louie raised his eyebrows, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a wallet the size of a campaign chest, brimming with
     layers of mysterious papers and cards of many colors. He located a particular piece of detritus, pulled it out, smoothed it
     flat against his considerable stomach, handed it over.
    The cop looked at it. Louie reached out his hand, but the cop pulled it back a bit. “This expires next week. You’ll want to
     get that taken care of while you’re getting the window fixed.”
    “Sure, officer. Right away.”
    The cop handed him the permit. Louie stuffed it back into the wallet, and somehow managed to wedge it back into his hip pocket.
     When he looked up, the cop was holding out his card, so Louie went through the whole routine again to feed it back into the
     jaws of all that chaos.
    And then, just like that, it was over. People were starting to straggle out, hanging on to each other. Some were quiet, others
     had gotten all excited and were jabbering away.
    I looked at my watch. Shit. Almost 10:30. I was supposed to take an eleven-to-seven shift in the Fat Man’s cab and I was going
     to have to hustle to get there in time to pick it up, especially in this weather. The Fat Man hated anybody being late, and
     some guy getting shot wasn’t going to get me a hall pass, especially since it wasn’t me who got shot. I closed up the sound
     system, packed it under my arm, nodded at the guys, told Paul “Duty calls,” and booked out to my car. The snow was starting
     to get serious, coming down sideways in big fat flakes.
    Not your average night.
    After fishtailing down Lincoln and sliding down Michigan I got to the cabstand at 10:58. I gathered up all my stuff, locked
     up my car, walked over to the cab, found the clicker for the cab, flicked the doors open, started her up, got behind the wheel,
     wipered off the snow, and eased into traffic, heading back downtown. I didn’t get two blocks when some guy flagged me over,
     hopped in, said “Airport,” and we were off.
    Great, I thought. O’Hare Airport, land of the fifty-dollar fare.
    “Midway Airport,” he said.
    Shit, I thought, Midway Airport, land of the long and pointless wait.
    First it’s one thing, and then it’s another.

CHAPTER 5
    Vinnie Amatucci
    Waiting at Midway
    Thursday, January 9 / Friday, January 10
    I was drifting through the vastness of space, slowly spinning in a weightless void. I