streets, this time of year. With the sun gone down, now, the wind was colder, bitterer than ever.
It had started when Wolfe had gone into the seediest bar he could find that still had wifi. He was searching through news on his laptop. On the internet jukebox was an old Stones song about “the girl with far away eyes”.
Mick Wolfe listened to the song in a distant way, as he tooled through the web for a way to find a certain son of a bitch. Wolfe was just sitting there at the bar, close to the wall, sipping a boilermaker and searching Chicago news for Verrick.
He glanced at the door whenever someone came in; he was keeping an eye out in case Tranter came looking for him. Tranter—or someone worse.
There on the laptop screen was a picture of Verrick in a powder-blue Italian suit, posing next to a shiny sensor array that was a sample of ctOS-2, the new system Blume Corporation was getting ready to launch. Verrick was Blume’s security head, and this was a security sensor, so it was no shock to see Roger Verrick in the picture, trying to smile and pointing at the metal and crystal cluster. Wolfe wasn’t seeing much else on Verrick that was up to date.
“Hey,” said a sultry voice at his elbow. “I know him! That’s the guy from the Upstairs Room.”
Wolfe twitched a little, managed not to jump out of his seat and turned to look at the girl.
“Ya didn’t even hear me walk up, didja?” she asked, smirking. She had a slight southeast Asian accent, oddly mixed with Chicago working class; was quite small but shapely, her black bob highlighted with silver at the tips, her lips and fingernails painted silver too; her eyes were almond-shaped and chestnut-colored. She had one fist cocked on her hip. “You sure jumped, soldier boy!” She pointed at the U.S. Army tattoo on his forearm.
“I’m not a soldier anymore,” he said, turning to the laptop . Not that kind, anyway. “But you should be, girl, walking up that quiet on people...” Wait, what had she said? “You saying you’ve seen that guy in person, somewhere?” He tapped Verrick’s image on the screen.
“Sure,” she said. “At the Four Clubs. They got a room upstairs—and guess what, they call it the Upstairs Room. Think they’re cute. I could tell you were interested in him, real personal like, the way you were staring at that boring picture. You buy me a Courvoisier?”
That was pretty expensive liquor. But if she knew where Verrick could be found when the bastard was out and about...
Wolfe dug some bills from his pocket. He still had eighty dollars left from the off-the-books construction work he’d done in Kansas City. He put a twenty on the bar. “Courvoisier for the lady,” he told the bartender.
The old man nodded, and shuffled over to get the cognac.
“You can afford Courvoisier?” she asked. “I thought you’d say, how about if I get you a vodka instead! You just got paid, huh? Wanta party?”
“I didn’t say I could afford the Courvoisier,” he said. “But I’ll pay for it.” Wolfe waited till she had climbed up on the stool next to him and had a sip of her drink, then he asked, “So this Four Clubs place...where is it? This Roger Verrick owes me money.”
“I can’t give out the address. That’d get me in trouble. Place is illegal—’course, all the cops know where it is. They’re paid off.”
“Old Chicago tradition.”
“Sure. Anyway...if ya go over to the Loop, ask around near Van Buren, check the scene, I bet ya find it. They won’t letcha in, though. Not unless you got a nice suit at home to put on first—and maybe a razor. You got to look like a high roller to get in there. They got more’n one tough bouncer.”
He’d cross that bouncer when he came to it, he figured. “What’s your name?” he asked the girl.
“Lulu.”
“I’m Mick.”
“Can I call you Mickey?”
“Make you happy, call me Mickey. Look, uh—could you get me into the Four Clubs?”
“Nah, not a chance, they
It had started when Wolfe had gone into the seediest bar he could find that still had wifi. He was searching through news on his laptop. On the internet jukebox was an old Stones song about “the girl with far away eyes”.
Mick Wolfe listened to the song in a distant way, as he tooled through the web for a way to find a certain son of a bitch. Wolfe was just sitting there at the bar, close to the wall, sipping a boilermaker and searching Chicago news for Verrick.
He glanced at the door whenever someone came in; he was keeping an eye out in case Tranter came looking for him. Tranter—or someone worse.
There on the laptop screen was a picture of Verrick in a powder-blue Italian suit, posing next to a shiny sensor array that was a sample of ctOS-2, the new system Blume Corporation was getting ready to launch. Verrick was Blume’s security head, and this was a security sensor, so it was no shock to see Roger Verrick in the picture, trying to smile and pointing at the metal and crystal cluster. Wolfe wasn’t seeing much else on Verrick that was up to date.
“Hey,” said a sultry voice at his elbow. “I know him! That’s the guy from the Upstairs Room.”
Wolfe twitched a little, managed not to jump out of his seat and turned to look at the girl.
“Ya didn’t even hear me walk up, didja?” she asked, smirking. She had a slight southeast Asian accent, oddly mixed with Chicago working class; was quite small but shapely, her black bob highlighted with silver at the tips, her lips and fingernails painted silver too; her eyes were almond-shaped and chestnut-colored. She had one fist cocked on her hip. “You sure jumped, soldier boy!” She pointed at the U.S. Army tattoo on his forearm.
“I’m not a soldier anymore,” he said, turning to the laptop . Not that kind, anyway. “But you should be, girl, walking up that quiet on people...” Wait, what had she said? “You saying you’ve seen that guy in person, somewhere?” He tapped Verrick’s image on the screen.
“Sure,” she said. “At the Four Clubs. They got a room upstairs—and guess what, they call it the Upstairs Room. Think they’re cute. I could tell you were interested in him, real personal like, the way you were staring at that boring picture. You buy me a Courvoisier?”
That was pretty expensive liquor. But if she knew where Verrick could be found when the bastard was out and about...
Wolfe dug some bills from his pocket. He still had eighty dollars left from the off-the-books construction work he’d done in Kansas City. He put a twenty on the bar. “Courvoisier for the lady,” he told the bartender.
The old man nodded, and shuffled over to get the cognac.
“You can afford Courvoisier?” she asked. “I thought you’d say, how about if I get you a vodka instead! You just got paid, huh? Wanta party?”
“I didn’t say I could afford the Courvoisier,” he said. “But I’ll pay for it.” Wolfe waited till she had climbed up on the stool next to him and had a sip of her drink, then he asked, “So this Four Clubs place...where is it? This Roger Verrick owes me money.”
“I can’t give out the address. That’d get me in trouble. Place is illegal—’course, all the cops know where it is. They’re paid off.”
“Old Chicago tradition.”
“Sure. Anyway...if ya go over to the Loop, ask around near Van Buren, check the scene, I bet ya find it. They won’t letcha in, though. Not unless you got a nice suit at home to put on first—and maybe a razor. You got to look like a high roller to get in there. They got more’n one tough bouncer.”
He’d cross that bouncer when he came to it, he figured. “What’s your name?” he asked the girl.
“Lulu.”
“I’m Mick.”
“Can I call you Mickey?”
“Make you happy, call me Mickey. Look, uh—could you get me into the Four Clubs?”
“Nah, not a chance, they