Conrad was answering her tersely. His jaw was rigid, and when he saw me come in with Morrell he broke off midsentence. I introduced the two men before sitting heavily down again—all this commotion was wearing me out.

“You been shot, huh?” Conrad said to Morrell. “Not running in front of a bullet meant for Vic, were you?”

“No, these were all meant for me,” Morrell said. “Or, at least, for anyone trying to get into Mazar-e-Sharif that day. Or that’s what the army told me—I don’t remember it myself.”

“Sorry, man, tough. I took a few at Hill 882.”

Conrad was embarrassed at letting his feelings about me goad him into plain bald rudeness. For several minutes, he and Morrell and Mr. Contreras traded war stories—my neighbor had somehow survived one of World War II’s bloodiest battles without being hurt, but he had seen plenty of other dead and wounded men. Marcena had her own store of war zone anecdotes to contribute. South Side street fighter that I am, I’ve seen my share of ugly fights, but these were small and personal, so I kept them to myself.

“‘War is sweet to those who never saw one,’” Morrell said, adding to me, “Erasmus, I think—you’ll have to ask Coach McFarlane how he said it in Latin.”

His words broke the chain of reminiscences; Conrad turned to Marcena. “Vic was telling me you’ve been riding around the South Side, Ms. Love. Have you been on your own?”

Marcena looked at me reproachfully; I hadn’t been a good chum, telling on her to the cops.

“You’ve spent a lot of time down there lately, you’ve seen a lot of the community, and people talk to you frankly,” I said. “I told Commander Rawlings, because you might have seen or heard something that would be useful to him.”

“I can ask my own questions, Vic, thanks, and don’t go tipping off witnesses again, okay? Maybe Ms. Love and I will go out for coffee and let you two be alone.”

“Absolutely,” Marcena said. “Morrell, when you’re ready for me to drive you back to Evanston, ring me on my mobile. This will be great, Commander: I’ve needed to talk to someone in the police to round out my picture of South Chicago. So much of it seems to be under permanent surveillance.”

Conrad ignored her to stand over me. “Vic, I meant what I said about you messing up my turf. Take care of the basketball program. Deal with the financial crooks on La Salle Street. Leave the Fourth District to me.”

17

A Frog in My Jeans

“What’d you do to get a police commander so annoyed with you, Pepperpot?” Morrell asked.

“Nothing he won’t get over in another decade or two.” I leaned against him and shut my eyes.