It was well after midnight when I pulled up in front of the Purple Tip on North Halsted, the eighth club on my long list to check. I’d eaten the chocolate doughnut, leaving the banana and granola for later. I was just about to get out of the car and go inside, when I saw a freshly washed turquoise Caddy matching the description of Prescott’s car ease up the street. I caught the plate and matched it to the info in the law firm’s file. It was Prescott’s, all right. Though, frankly, how many folks would choose to roll around town in a gaudy turquoise Cadillac with whitewall tires, unless, of course, they were an old-school pimp caught in a Huggy Bear time loop?

I slid down in the driver’s seat as the car moved past me and parked at the curb across the street. I watched, my head barely above the steering wheel, as a big, dumb-looking bruiser got out from behind the wheel of Big Percy’s pimp ride and adjusted himself. He had to be Prescott’s muscle, hired to discourage the unwelcome. The bruiser wore a red velour warm-up suit with white stripes down the outside of the pants underneath a fur coat made from what looked like synthetic muskrat. He reached into the backseat and came out with a beat-up guitar case. That’s when Big Percy got out on the passenger side and scanned the street. He wasn’t a complete idiot. He knew he was dodging the court.

Big Percy, 250 pounds of unadulterated ugly, was decked out in a knee-length snakeskin coat worn over a tangerine suit, the coat shimmering like wet sealskin when it caught the streetlights. Sticking close to muskrat, he headed for the door to the Purple Tip, as if he hadn’t one single care in the whole wide world.

Folks were milling around in the street, even at this hour, coming out of bars, going in. I had my car window open a crack so I could hear the street noise, but the crack also let in barbecue smoke, the sour scent of rancid fry grease, and the musky stench of everyday street grime. I knew these streets; I patrolled them for more than three years as a cop in uniform. They could be both mean and good, but rarely good this late at night. Anyone out at this hour was likely not in the running for sainthood. I got an idea. I felt for the gun in my ankle holster, just for reassurance, and then stuffed the summons in my back pocket, bounded out of the car, and rushed across the street, dodging potholes nearly big enough to drop a casket in. “Big Percy?”

Prescott froze midstride, reeled, his eyes wild, wary, a cornered rat caught flat-footed mere inches from his hidey-hole.

I clasped my hands together gleefully. “Big Percy Prescott? I can’t believe it.”