A crowd of kids, mostly boys, was breathing over the shoulders of those lucky enough to have a seat. Each machine had a large timer over it; when one dinged, the user had to give way to someone who was waiting. An older teen in a lime-green Say, Yes! T broke up arguments over those who failed to quit when their time was up, or those who’d jumped the queue. Looking around, I saw five other older boys, the monitors, I supposed, all in green T’s.

The walls were covered with poster-sized photos. Some were of the kids in Say, Yes! shirts at different outings, others were of the neighborhood from the time I knew it, when the mills were running and Commercial Avenue was filled with shops and shoppers.

In the back of the room, a video of a baseball game was being shown. Vince Bagby was standing there, next to Father Cardenal. As my eyes adjusted to the light and the sound, I saw Thelma Kalvin tucked into a corner with Rory Scanlon. Curiouser and curiouser.

We threaded our way through the melee toward the baseball video. Bernie attracted a predictable number of catcalls and thinly veiled invitations to fuck. She curled her lip, flexing her wrists around an imaginary hockey stick. This kind of attention wasn’t newer to her than any other teenage girl in the Americas, but she didn’t have to like it—which earned further catcalls and a few cries of “stuck-up bitch.”

The obscene outbursts caught Cardenal’s attention. He stiffened when he saw me, tapped Bagby’s arm.

“The detective.” Bagby waved at me and pointed at Bernie. “Come on over. You got a kid who can play baseball?”

“She probably can, just won’t,” I said. “She’s a demon on ice, though. Hockey.”

“Rory’s showing the kids the baseball camp he can help get them into if their grades and skills are good enough. Right, Rory?” Vince looked around for Scanlon, saw him with Thelma and turned back to me. “I was going to say, Keep an eye on young Guzzo, but I hear you’ve already been looking him over.”

“If he keeps playing the way he did when I saw him cover the infield gap, he’s going to make all of us proud,” I said. “He’s not here this afternoon?”

“Young Frankie is already sold on the idea,” Vince said. “This is for the stragglers who think gang life might be more fun than sweat and blood or whatever the quote is. You wouldn’t be trying to wreck the kid’s chances, would you?”

“Betty been talking to you? Or Big Frank? I want his boy to succeed as much as everyone else down here. Is that what Fugher and Nabiyev were doing up at Wrigley Field? Trying to persuade the Cubs head office to give Frankie a tryout?”

Vince thought that was so hilarious that his laugh drew Scanlon’s and Thelma’s attention. When Thelma saw me, she turned an unwholesome shade of puce. I had a feeling she had run upstairs to talk to Scanlon about Bernie and me.

“You know Vic, here?” Bagby called to them. “And—who’s the hockey player?”

“Boom-Boom’s niece.”

Scanlon looked surprised. “I thought Warshawski was an only child.”

“You’re doing my family proud, Mr. Scanlon, remembering the details of my cousin’s life when you see so many young people.”

“Boom-Boom’s life got a lot of publicity recently,” Scanlon said. “Brought it all back to mind, but of course he was exceptional enough that we all remember him. Niece have a name?”

I didn’t want this crowd to have Bernie’s identity, but before I could speak, Bernie had already identified herself.

“Pierre Fouchard’s daughter?” Scanlon asked. “No wonder Bagby knew you for a hockey player. When can we see you play?”

“When the college season starts, I will be here, playing for Northwestern,” Bernie said proudly.

“Pity I only work with middle and high school students or I’d persuade you to play baseball,” Scanlon said. “Girl like you would keep the boys on their toes.”

Next to me, Bernie tensed, not liking Scanlon’s tone but not sure how to respond. I pulled her closer to me, team of two, you’re not alone with the creeps, my sister.

“Did you ever figure out what Jerry Fugher and Boris were doing in one of your trucks?” I asked Bagby.

“We fired the driver who let them con him into using it,” Bagby said, his easy grin appearing and disappearing. “Our dispatcher had some concerns about him, anyway, going off-route. You have to monitor every truck every hour of the day—too easy for guys to turn themselves into couriers for drugs or crap.”

“I’d like a word with the driver,” I said.

“No can do,” he said. “Private company business.”

“I’ve been hired to sort out Fugher’s death,” I said.

“Cops don’t do a good enough job for you?” Scanlon asked.

“You know how it is in South Chicago,” I said. “With all the new gangs moving down here in the Cabrini-Green reshuffle, the cops are stretched thin staying on top of street violence. They’ll work Fugher’s death, for sure, but an extra pair of eyes can only help.”

“Who hired you?” Bagby asked. “I never heard Fugher had any family.”

“You’re a quick study,” I said. “When I met you at the Guisar slip two days ago, you didn’t know who he was. Now you know him well enough never to have heard about his family.”

The schoolboy grin disappeared again, replaced by something cold, even hostile. Bernie tensed further and Father Cardenal stepped forward, ready to come between us if we started to swing at each other.

“We’re okay, padre,” Vince said. “I don’t like being a butt, but who does? Warshawski, you’ve been tearing up the South Side the last two weeks because Guzzo’s ma took a potshot at your cousin. Bagby Haulage isn’t just my business, it’s my name—way more personal than a rumor about a cousin. When two guys steal one of my trucks, of course I found out everything there was to know about them.”

“So you know where to find Nabiyev,” I said.

“I do. How about you?” Bagby’s cocky grin was back in place.

“Yep,” I said. “Saw him this morning.”

Credits were rolling on the baseball camp video. Scanlon nodded at one of the older boys, who turned up the lights in the back of the room. When Scanlon asked for questions, a couple of shy hands went up.

“Where’d you see him?” Bagby asked me in an undervoice.

“Same place he saw me,” I said. “Ask him and I’m sure he’ll tell you, although I’d probably drop a plate of raw meat in front of him first, so as to keep him occupied.”

Bagby thought that was so funny that his laugh drew attention away not just from Scanlon, but even, briefly, the video games. “You’re all right, Warshawski,” he said, slapping my shoulder. “You’re all right.”

On our way out of the room, I stopped to look at the old photos of South Chicago. There was one that dated to 1883, when the Ninety-third Street Illinois Central station first opened, and a few from the early twentieth century, showing men going into the Wisconsin or U.S. Steel Works when those were new. Gripping lunch boxes, faces black with coal dust, skies thick with sulfur. My mother and I used to wash the windows every week but we never kept ahead of the dirt falling from the sky.

Bernie’s face was tight with worry. She wouldn’t admit that the afternoon had scared her in any way, but she clung to my arm in an uncharacteristic way.

I ushered her through the crowd of kids still waiting for time on the computers. When we got to the street, I froze: the Mustang’s tires had been slashed. The car was sitting on the rims.

“Someone down here doesn’t like me very much,” I said to Bernie. “We’ll take the train home and worry about the car in the morning. You leave anything valuable inside? Then let’s go.”

We were three blocks from the Metra station, the same one where I’d ridden back from the Guisar slip the other morning. There should be a train in ten or fifteen minutes.

The April sky was starting to darken. I picked up the pace on an empty stretch where storefronts had been bulldozed, pushing Bernie in front of me. That’s where they jumped us.