They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee Read Online Free PDF Page B

aloud.
    â€œWhat I think is police business and you ain’t police, not anymore.”
    â€œSame M.O. as Caliparri minus the body?” MacClough guessed.
    â€œSame answer as before. Only now, I’m ordering you to leave.”
    When John sensed that I was going to argue, he pulled me out of the house by the arm. He may have been on bad terms with Fazio, but apparently it was important to maintain some measure of goodwill with the detective.
    â€œWhere we going?” I asked as we walked to his old Thunderbird.
    â€œI’m not going anywhere.”
    â€œAnd me?”
    â€œYou’re going to college.”

Long Sleeves
    The cab fare back to Sound Hill was roughly equivalent to one quarter of the advance to my first book. God knows, I wrote the damned thing in less time than it took to get home. I stopped by the Scupper to pass on a few instructions from MacClough to his brother Billy and to wash the day down with a pint. One pint turned into two and two into three. Billy gave me a lift after I helped him close the place.
    Procrastination time was over once I’d showered and shaved. I went to my writing desk and dug out Larry Feld’s business card. I flipped the card over to where he’d written down his home number. I punched in the numbers and half prayed to get his answering machine.
    Larry Feld was sort of a lawyer from the dark side of the force. Stated politely, Larry was an attorney who represented outcasts, societal pariahs, and miscreants. In fact, he was a Mafia lawyer who defended the occasional serial rapist or pedophile. But Larry Feld was also a guy who’d grown up on my block, a guy who used to invite me over for Passover seder. He had gotten me my first jobs as an investigator and always made sure to feed me enough work to pay the bills. Problem with Larry Feld was, he never did anything out of the goodness of his heart. It was a toss-up as to whether he just didn’t understand goodness or had no heart. The jury was still out. What Larry did understand was the system and what he did have was connections. He was not unlike my brother Jeffrey in those respects. If you needed information, he could get it. The bill, however, was almost always too steep.
    â€œWhat is it?” He was home.
    â€œIt’s Dylan, Larry.”
    â€œSorry about your dad.”
    â€œHow the fuck did you—”
    â€œOne hears things. I sent a basket,” he said. “Your dad always hated my guts. At least he wasn’t a phony about it and he treated my folks with respect.”
    Feld’s parents had survived Auschwitz, but not at all intact. His father was a morose little man who wore long sleeves on dog days to hide as many scars as he could. His mother painted their windows black. For cruel children and their cruder parents, the Felds were easy targets for every joke and whisper.
    â€œThanks,” I said. “He did hate you.”
    â€œEnough sweet talk, Dylan. You only call me when you want something.”
    â€œHernandez and Fazio. Hernandez is an NYPD case that could go back maybe twenty, thirty years. John MacClough had some involvement in it. Fazio is a dectective up in Castle-on-Hudson. Used to be NYPD.”
    â€œHernandez I’ve got to look into. If Fazio’s first name is Nick, I can give you something now.”
    â€œNick’s the name,” I confirmed.
    â€œMost decorated detective to ever work Internal Affairs. Retired, detective first grad. He’s got a great rep. Even the guys he brought down respect him. Works in Castle-on-Hudson to prove to the world he’s real cop, not just another cheese eater.”
    â€œSee if Fazio and MacClough intersect at Hernandez.”
    â€œShit!” he hissed. “You don’t need me. You need a road map.”
    â€œI need you, Larry. Trust me.”
    â€œYou’re the only the person I know who could say that and get away with it. Give me two days.”
    When Larry clicked