Cut to the Bone(23)

Wayne shot him a fake punch. “A pity you couldn’t join us. Ma made griddle cakes and ham. Pineapple upside-down cake, toast, jam from her raspberry patch-”

“Shaddup,” Andy grumped. “I would have been there except Brendan Stone was whining about a tummy ache. I had to go find him some Bromo-Seltzer.”

“That guy sure complains a lot,” Wayne said, accepting coffee from the sergeant of the twelve-man detail. The paper cup was so hot he wrapped it with a handkerchief. Better. “They don’t make gangsters like they used to.”

“That’s for sure,” Andy said. “Last night I told him criminals were supposed to be stoic so shut the hell up. Guess what he said?”

Wayne arched an eyebrow.

“He says, ‘How dare you call me stoic, Officer? Everyone knows I’m Irish.’“

Wayne honked coffee out his nose, making Andy fall to the sidewalk laughing.

Earl Monroe pulled his fresh-waxed Ford Galaxie onto the gravel shoulder, kitty-corner from the motel. He waited for the dust to settle, then cranked down his window and inspected the scene with binoculars.

What a dump, he thought, vastly amused. A silk-stocking guy like Brendan’s gotta hate this. A lumpy janitor scraped crud off the windows. A black Plymouth Fury idled nose-out from the door. Eight stocky men lined the sidewalk, jiving and joshing.

Sears Roebuck suits, Earl noted. Black shoes, white socks, low-slung fedoras, bulging coats. Yup, they’re plainclothes cops. A mixture of Naperville and county. Exactly as his court snitch promised. Good to know the mutt was on the ball.

In a few minutes, Brendan would emerge from the motel for the ride to the grand jury. When he did, Earl would climb out of the Galaxie and wipe his hound-dog face with a big red rag. Brendan would see it and know his fate was sealed-

“What the?” he sputtered, jerking the binoculars into his eye sockets.

“Yes sir, right away,” the janitor answered the sergeant. He grabbed squeegee and bucket and scuttled backward from the motel’s entrance, hat flapping.

Andy ground the Fury into gear, inched backward till Sarge shouted, “Whoa.” He hopped out, leaving the motor rumbling and “Yellow Submarine,” the new Beatles hit, blaring.

“Awright ya damn hippie, go fetch our witness,” the sergeant said, swatting Andy’s arm. He didn’t know how the kid could stand that cat strangle they called rock-and-roll. Kids liked a lot of crazy things, he supposed. “Rest of you, block the sidewalk with your big fine selves.”

“Holy cow, Sarge,” Andy said, raising his eyes to the high, thin clouds. “We expecting airborne commandos to kidnap this galoot?”

The sergeant’s eye roll said he, too, thought the precautions silly, but the big cheeses wanted it that way. “Just do it.”

Andy saluted, double-timed inside.

“He’s a good kid, Wayne,” the sergeant said fondly. “Gonna be a fine copper.”

“He already is,” Wayne said.

His little brother had wanted to be a police officer since he could go “bang-bang” with finger and thumb. Wayne pinned on the badge himself when the Naperville Police Department swore Andy in. The Polaroid that Pop snapped stood proudly on the Queen Anne’s mantel, next to the one of Wayne graduating law school. “He already is,” he repeated.

“Yeah. Your folks should be proud. Both sons in law enforcement.”

“Andy’s the law,” Wayne said. “I’m the order.”

The sergeant laughed, then laid out the route for his plainclothesmen. “All right, they’re coming out,” he said. “We go the moment Brendan’s butt hits the seat.”

“See you at the grand jury,” Wayne said.

“We’ll get there when we get there,” the sergeant said. “Don’t want to use lights and sirens. Earl Monroe still wants to knock this guy off, and I don’t want to give him a target.”

Wayne turned to leave but felt a twinge in his bladder. He wouldn’t have time to relieve himself at the courthouse. “Where’s the head on this ship, Sarge?”

“Green door,” he replied, pointing with his chin. “Next to the ice machine. Can’t miss it.”

Wayne hurried away.

Earl thumbed the center wheel to sharpen the focus.

The coot janitor was his kid brother Daniel, brushing suds with one hand and unbuttoning his coveralls with the other. He was sweating a lot harder than August would dictate, and his jaw, carpeted with fake sideburns, moved sideways, something he did only when extremely nervous. His belly was the size of a feather pillow. That made no sense at all - Danny was thin as a whippet. He was hiding something underneath . . .