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Jackie, can you tell me if someone’s dead or not?’“Who it be? Maybe I heard something.”“Miranda Lopez.” I pulled out the charm and balanced it on my fingertips, and then I realized the photo was probably a better likeness. I pocketed the milagro ad held up the Polaroid. “I find out for you if you get me a dime.”I sighed and put the photo away. “You can’t smoke crack. You’re dead. And even if you weren’t, I’m not gonna score for you. I’m a cop. ““You so full of shit. You ain’t no cop neither.”“Would I be wearing this fucking suit if I wasn’t a cop?”“I don’t know. I always thought you sold cars or something.”I tucked my chin toward my chest and stomped toward my gate. Jackie couldn’t help me. And how dare she call me a used car salesman? I wasn’t always a dork in a blazer. Once upon a time I was actually cool. Until the Cook County Mental Health Centre, anyway. After that, I guess I kinda stopped caring.
