Lynch parked in Rusty’s brick circle drive at the end of a line of six cars, the Grand Marquis the princes of the city drove or were driven in. Couple of the cars had drivers lounging in the front seats, listening to the radios. A stretch Mercedes at the end of the line. The driver was a retired cop Lynch knew, guy named Lewis, standing next to the car smoking, guy who’d done his twenty, then gone private. Personal security, that kind of shit. Lynch pulled out a Camel and joined him.

“Hey, Lewis. Riding shotgun for somebody?”

“Hey, Lynch. Howya doin? Yeah. Funny you turning up. Got a call from Eddie Marslovak. Thing with his mother got him freaked a little, I guess, maybe thinking somebody’s coming after him. He’s gotta nice ride, anyway.”

Lynch looked up and down the Mercedes. “Got a bar and everything?”

“Bar, TV, couple a cell phones, some kind of hookup so his computer’s on line. Like driving a space shuttle. Hey, you’re workin’ his mom’s case, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You out here to see him?”

Lynch shook his head. “Wanted to talk to Rusty real quick. Guess Uncle Rusty’s still got the juice, huh?”

Lewis dropped his butt to the bricks and ground it under the toe of his wingtip. “What I hear around the Hall, more juice than ever. Taking the fall on that Fed beef, good career move, far as I can see. Got him out of the county board seat. Doesn’t have to play sleight of hand to get paid no more.”

“Well, not me, Lewis. Still on the city’s clock.” Lynch flicked half a Camel into the pine bark mulch along the side of the drive and headed for the door.

Rusty Lynch was what Lynch’s old man would have been given another thirty years. Big, hair gone pure white, fine cross-hatch of busted veins over the nose and cheeks, still that sparkle in the eyes that was menace and merriment both at once. Rusty Lynch broke into a broad grin when he opened the door.

“Johnny. Fuck me, it is good to see you, boy. Get your ass inside, say hello to the fellas.”

“Rusty,” Lynch said, stepping into the slate-floored hall. “You’re looking good.”

“I’m lookin’ like a fat old drunk whose clothes all have enough Xs in them to go into the dirty book business and don’t I know it.” The old man threw a playful jab into Lynch’s gut. “But you’re keepin’ fit, Johnny, and you always favored your mother anyway. Good on you.”

Rusty ushered Lynch into the living room, a long rectangle with a barrel-vaulted ceiling. All the furniture was wood or brown leather. Marslovak and Burke, Hurley’s chief of staff, Lynch knew. They sat to the right.

“Some of you boys know my nephew, John Lynch, him being one of Chicago’s finest. And, Johnny, I know you know some of the boys. Eddie I know you just met, though not the best circumstances, and you and Dick Burke go back a bit anyway.”

Lynch nodded at Marslovak and Burke. Burke gave a short wave.

“Tony Lazzara’s the mayor’s new money man. Rod Fell’s our rising star in congress, up there in Rostenkowski’s old seat, and, God help me, these other fine boys are riding herd on him, out from the masters at the DNC, but I can’t keep their names straight. Anyway, just wanted to show you off. Is it private business you’ve got?”

“Just a couple minutes is all I need, Rusty. I can come back.”

“Oh, no need of that, Johnny. These sharp fellas can carry on without me for a bit.” Rusty draped an arm over Lynch’s shoulder and turned him toward his study.

Rusty dropped the hint of brogue and the stage Irish act as soon as he and Lynch got into his office and shut the door. Being in touch with the auld sod was always good practice in Chicago, but Rusty had been born on the west side, just like Lynch.

“Interesting crowd,” Lynch said.

“I swear, Johnny, I work harder at this off-the-books wise-man shit than I ever did when I drew a paycheck.”

“Still drawing a check, from what I hear.”

“Well, I’m doin’ all right. I’ve always told you, Johnny, we look after one another in this town. You never did want to hear it, though.”

“Just not my game.”

“How’s your mother? Got down a couple weeks back, she was still hanging on.”

“Gotta be soon, I figure. Not like there’s much left they can cut off.”

“Tough thing. You’ve been good to her Johnny.”

“She was good to me.”

Rusty nodded, made a toasting motion with his glass. “So what brings you out? Not that you aren’t welcome.”

Lynch pulled the Wrigley shot he’d taken from the Marslovak house out of the envelope and handed it to Rusty.

“What do you make of this?”

Rusty looked at the photo for a minute. “Santo and Kessinger. What you put that at Johnny? Give that about a nine on a scale of ten, wouldn’t you? And for old EJ Marslovak. Bet his boy would love to have this.”

“EJ?”

“Edward Jacob. Never did get the whole line score on him. Crew foreman at Streets and San, know that much. Supervised a lot of the work when himself ripped up the old Taylor street neighborhood to put in that UIC campus starting back in the mid-Sixties. Got himself noticed somewhere along the line, round about ’70, I think. Anyway, word came down from on high. I gave him some precinct work, some ward work, bounced him around the north side for a while, tried to work him in with the Polack crowd on Milwaukee Avenue, but he just never made the grade. Pretty clear the big guy owed him one, and the big guy was pretty insistent on squaring his debts. Not so clear what he owed him for.”

“So he was a player?”

Rusty shook his head. “Big guy wanted him to be a player, but EJ didn’t have the appetite for it. God, I remember him at the Connemara Ball, this has got to be maybe 1971. He’s got on some green tux he picked up at some rental shop. His wife, she’s got some silly getup on. You never saw two souls lookin’ more lost. Himself comes up, asks Helen to dance, trying to make her at home. Look on her face the whole time, you’d think Satan was trying to butt fuck her. They were out the door by 9 o’clock. Speaking of which, you goin’ this year?”

“The Connemara? I don’t know, Rusty.”

“You should make an appearance, Johnny. People miss you. Your old man, he was well loved, and there’s them that would like to make a gesture to his boy. You’re leaving a lot on the table, son. You got a whole inheritance waitin’ on you. You know I can lay it out for you any time you like.”

“Thanks, Rusty. I know you told the old man you’d look out for me. I’m making my way, though.”

“Don’t get touchy on me now. Nobody’s saying you can’t pull your own wagon. Just wondering does it have to be uphill both ways all the time with you. You’re owed, Johnny. Nothing more than that.”

“Those debts seem to go both ways, Rusty.”

Rusty gave a little snort. “That they do, my boy. That they do.”

Back in the car, Lynch picked up his phone, checked his messages, hoping Liz had called back. Nothing. Little feeling in his gut. Might as well be back in high school. She’d been in circulation better than a year, had a couple of drinks, maybe it was just a thing. Nothing saying a woman couldn’t just be looking for a little touch.

“Jesus,” he said to himself, pulling his sunglasses off the visor. “Might as well go home and watch Oprah.”

Lynch took Harlem back down toward the Eisenhower, then cut east onto Jackson cruising the west side back toward the Loop, heading toward the United Center. His Crown Vic wasn’t a marked unit, but it was marked enough for this neighborhood. Lynch watched the look outs on some of the hot corners scurrying ahead, letting the street dealers know five-0 was on the block. Lynch rode with the window cranked down a couple turns, taking in the sights and sounds, just showing the flag a little, letting his chat with Rusty percolate.

Lynch wasn’t sure he was worried about Eddie Marslovak being out at the house. Eddie moved a lot of money around town, both on the books and through back channels, so he and Rusty, they’d be dipping their sticks in the same hole often enough. The rest of it – Burke, this Lazzara guy, Pretty Boy Fell – that pointed to some official deal, not something related to the shooting. Interesting that Eddie wanted some security, though. Lynch would think about that.