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“What about my money?” I asked.

She dug into her purse and pulled out a check.

“I can’t take a check.”

“It’s good. I swear.”

“How am I supposed to remain incognito if I deposit a check?”

Abigail did the lip quiver thing again.

“Oh my goodness, I didn’t even think of that. Please don’t make Julia into baggage.”

More tears.

“Calm down. Don’t cry. You’ll ruin your…uh…make-up.”

I offered her a handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes and handed it back to me.

It looked like it had been tie-dyed.

“I think I have two or three dollars in my purse,” she rasped in her smoker voice. “Is that okay?”

What the hell. I took it.

“I’ll take those Tic-Tacs, too.”

She handed them over. Wint-O-Green.

“Can we go now?”

“Go ahead.”

She turned to leave the alley, and a thought occurred to me.

“Ms. Cummings! When the police came to visit you to look for Marcus, did you have an alibi?”

She glanced over her shoulder and nodded vigorously.

“That’s the point. The day Vincent said he brought the dog to my house, I wasn’t home. I was enjoying the third day of an Alaskan Cruise.”

Vincent Thorpe was waiting for me when I got back to my office. He carefully scanned the floor before approaching my desk.

“That’s not Marcus! That’s not even a Shar-pei!”

“We’ll discuss that later.”

“Where’s Marcus?”

“There have been some complications.”

“Complications?” Thorpe leaned in closer, raised an eyebrow. “What happened to your face?”

“I think I’m allergic to wool.”

“It looks like you rubbed your cheeks with sandpaper.”

I wrote, “I hate him” on my notepad.

“Look, Mr. Thorpe, Abigail Cummings doesn’t have Marcus. But I may have an idea who does.”

“Who?”

“First, I need to ask you a few questions…”

My face was too sore for the ski mask again, so I opted for a nylon stocking.

It was hot.

I shifted positions on the branch I was sitting on, and took another look through the binoculars.

Nothing. The backyard was quiet. But thirty feet away, next to a holly bush, was either a small, brown anthill, or evidence that there was a dog on the premises.

I took out my pencil and reviewed my stake-out sheet.

9:46pm—Climbed tree.
9:55pm—My face hurts.
10:07pm—It really hurts bad.
10:22pm—I think I’ll go see a doctor.
10:45pm—Maybe the drug store has some kind of cream.

I added, “11:07pm—Spotted evidence in backyard. Remember to pick up some aloe vera on the way home.”

Before I had a chance to cross my Ts, the patio door opened.

I didn’t even need the binoculars. A man, mid-forties with short, brown hair, was walking a dog that was obviously a Shar-pei.

Though my track-team days were far behind me (okay, non-existent), I still managed to leap down from the tree without hurting myself.

The man yelped in surprise, but I had my gun out and in his face before he had a chance to move.

“Hi there, Mr. Ricketts. Kneel down.”

“Who are you? What do…”

I cocked the gun.

“Kneel!”

He knelt.

“Good. Now lift up that dog’s back leg.”

“What?”

“Now!”

Glen Ricketts lifted. I checked.

It was Marcus.

“Leash,” I ordered.

He handed me the leash. My third dog in two days, but this time it was the right one.

Now for Part Two of the Big Plan.

“Do you know who I am, Glen?”

He shook his head, terrified.

“Special Agent Phillip Pants, of the American Kennel Club. Do you know why I’m here?”

He shook his head again.

“Don’t lie to me, Glen! Does the AKC allow dognapping?”

“No,” he whimpered.

“Your dog show days are over, Ricketts. Consider your membership revoked. If I so much catch you in the pet food isle at the Piggly Wiggly, I’m going to take you in and have you neutered. Got it?”

He nodded, eager to please. I gave Marcus a pat on the head, and then turned to leave.

“Hold on!”

Glen’s eyes were defeated, pleading.

“What?”

“You mean I can’t own a dog, ever again?”

“Not ever.”

“But…but…dogs are my life. I love dogs.”

“And that’s why you should have never stole someone else’s.”

He sniffled, loud and wet.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

I frowned. Grown men crying like babies weren’t my favorite thing to watch. But this joker had brought it upon himself.

“Buy a cat,” I told him.

Then I walked back to my car, Marcus in tow.

“Marcus!”

I watching, grinning, as Vincent Thorpe paid no mind to his expensive suit and rolled around on my floor with his dog, giggling like a caffeinated school boy.

“Mr. McGlade, how can I ever repay you?”

“Cash is good.”

He disentangled himself from the pooch long enough to pull out his wallet and hand over a fat wad of bills.

“Tell me, how did you know it was Glen Rickets?”

“Simple. You said yourself that he was always one of your closest competitors, up until his dog died earlier this year.”

“But what about Ms. Cummings? I talked to her on the phone. I even dropped the dog off at her house, and she took him from me. Wasn’t she involved somehow?”

“The phone was easy—Ms. Cummings has a voice like a chainsaw. With practice, anyone can imitate a smoker’s croak. But Glen really got clever for the meeting. He picked a time when Ms. Cummings was out of town, and then he spent a good hour or two with Max Factor.”

“Excuse me?”

“Cosmetics. As you recall, Abigail Cummings wore enough make-up to cause back-problems. Who could tell what she looked like under all that gunk? Glen just slopped on enough to look like a circus clown, and then he impersonated her.”

Thorpe shook his head, clucking his tongue.

“So it wasn’t actually Abigail. It was Glen all along. Such a nice guy, too.”

“It’s the nice ones you have to watch.”

“So, now what? Should I call the police?”

“No need. Glen won’t be bothering you, or any dog owner, ever again.”

I gave him the quick version of the backyard scene.

“He deserves it, taking Marcus from me. But now I have you back, don’t I, boy?”

There was more wrestling, and he actually kissed Marcus on the mouth.

“Kind of unsanitary, isn’t it?”

“Are you kidding? A dog’s saliva is full of antiseptic properties.”

“I was speaking for Marcus.”

Thorpe laughed. “Friendship transcends species, Mr. McGlade. Speaking of which, where’s that Collie/Shepherd mix that Abigail gave you?”

“At my apartment.”

“See? You’ve made a new friend, yourself.”

“Nope. I’ve got a six o’clock appointment at the animal shelter. I’m getting him gassed.”

Thorpe shot me surprised look.

“Mr. McGlade! After this whole ordeal, don’t you see what amazing companions canines are? A dog can enrich your life! All you have to do is give him a chance.”

I mulled it over. How bad could it be, having a friend who never borrowed money, stole your girl, or talked behind your back?

“You know what, Mr. Thorpe? I may just give it a shot.”

When I got home a few hours later, I discovered my new best friend had chewed the padding off of my leather couch.

I made it to the shelter an hour before my scheduled appointment.

Street Music is my favorite story of any I’ve written. Phineas Trout was the hero of my first novel, an unpublished mystery called
Dead On My Feet
, written back in 1992. It was unabashedly hardboiled, and it helped me land my first agent. The book never sold, probably because it was unabashedly hardboiled. Phin starred in two more unpublished novels, and then I relegated him to the role of sidekick in the Jack Daniels series, which did wind up selling. I’m intrigued by the idea of a hero dying of cancer, and how having no hope left could erode a man’s morality. I wrote this story right after selling
Whiskey Sour
, and soon after sold it to
Ellery Queen.

M
itch couldn’t answer me with the barrel of my gun in his mouth, so I pulled it out.

“I don’t know! I swear!”

If that was the truth, I had no use for it. After three days of questioning dozens of hookers, junkies, and other fine examples of Chicago’s populace, Mitch was my only link to Jasmine. I was seriously jonesing; I hadn’t done a line since Thursday. Plus, the pain in my side felt like a baby alligator was trying to eat its way out of my pancreas.

I gave Mitch’s chin a little tap with the butt of the Glock.

“I really don’t know!”

“She’s one of yours, Mitch. I thought big, tough pimps like you ran a tight ship.”

His black face was shiny with sweat and a little blood. Sure, he was scared. But he wasn’t stupid. Telling me Jasmine’s whereabouts would put a dent in his income.

I raised the gun back to hit him again.

“She went rogue on me, man! She ditched!”

I paused. If Jasmine had left Mitch, his reluctance to talk about it made some sense. Mack Daddies don’t like word to get out that they’re losing their game.

“How much money do you have on you?”

“About four hundos. It’s yours, man. Front pants pocket.”

“I’m not putting my hand in there. Take it out.”

Mitch managed to stop shaking long enough to retrieve a fat money clip. I took the cash, and threw the clip—a gold emblem in the shape of a female breast–onto the sidewalk.

“You letting me go?” Mitch asked.

“You’re free to pimp another day. Go run to the bus station, see if you can find some other fresh meat to bust out.”

When I let go of his lapels, his spine seemed to grow back. He adjusted the collar on his velour jump suit and made sure his baseball hat was tilted to the correct odd angle.

“Ain’t like that. I treat my girls good. Plenty of sweet love and all the rock they can smoke.”

“Leave. Now. Before I decide to do society a favor.”

He sneered, spun on his three hundred dollar sneakers, and did his pimp strut away from me.

I probably should have killed him; I had too many enemies already. But, tough as I am, shooting fourteen-year-old kids in the back isn’t my style.

The four hundred was enough to score some coke, but not very much. I thought about calling Manny, my dealer, and getting a sample to help kill the pain, but every minute I wasted gave Jasmine a chance to slip farther away.

Pain relief would have to wait. I pressed my hand to my left side and exited the alley and wondered where the hell I should look next.

I’d already checked Jasmine’s apartment, her boyfriend’s apartment, her parent’s house, her known pick-up spots, and three local crack houses.

To rule out other options, I had to call in a marker.

It was September, about seventy with clear skies, so I took a walk down the block. The first payphone I came to had gum jammed in the coin slot. The second one smelled like a urinal, but I made do.

“Violent Crimes, Daniels.”

“Hi, Jack. Phineas Troutt.”

“Phin? Haven’t seen you at the pool hall lately. Afraid I’ll kick your ass?”

My lips twisted in a tight grin. Jacqueline Daniels was a police Lieutenant who busted me a few years back. We had an on-again-off-again eight ball game Monday nights. I’d missed a few.

“I’m sort of preoccupied with something.”

“Chemo again?”

“No, work. Listen, you know what I do, right?”

“You’re a freelance thug.”

“I prefer the term problem solver. I keep it clean.”

“I’m guessing that’s because we haven’t caught you in the act, yet.”

“And you never will. Look, Jack, I need a favor.”

“I can’t do anything illegal, Phin. You know that.”

“Nothing shady. I just have to rule some stuff out. I’m looking for a woman. Hooker. Name is Janet Cumberland, goes by the street nick Jasmine. Any recent arrests or deaths with that name?”

There was a pause on the line. I could only guess Jack’s thoughts.

“Give me half an hour,” she decided. “Got a number where I can call you back?”

I killed time at a hot dog stand, sipping black coffee mixed with ten crushed Tylenol tablets; they worked faster when they were pre-dissolved.

The phone rang eighteen minutes later.

“No one at the morgue matching that name, and her last arrest was three months ago.”

“Do you have a place of residence?”

Jack read off the apartment number I’d already checked.

“How about known acquaintances?”

“She’s one of Mitch D’s girls. Been arrested a few times with another prostitute named Georgia Williamson, street name is Ajax. Kind of an odd name for a hooker.”

“She one of Mitch’s, too?”

“Lemme check. No, looks like she’s solo.”

“Got an addy?”

Jack gave it to me.

“There’s also a note in Janet’s file, says her parents are looking for her. That your angle? Even if you find her, the recit rate with crack is over 95 percent. They’ll stick her in rehab and a week later she’ll be on the street again.”