I napped after work. Around 10:00 p.m., I puttered over to the chief's house on my 1919 Harley-Davidson motorcycle. I parked it a half block away where I could see the back alley of the cozy two story house. The lights in the upstairs bedroom flicked off. I yawned. I scratched itches. More yawns. 

And I mentally cursed sixteen-year-old girls who had grown-up ankles. I could be sleeping, right now. Probably having nightmares about bullet-riddled old men, true, but sleeping nevertheless.

Nobody could hear me, so I muttered what I really thought. "Millie. Stay a kid, for Pete's sake. Adulthood's not that great, trust me."

I knew better than to light a cigarette. The match flare can be seen a mile away.

But somebody by Chief Largo's back gate lit up. The brief flicker of light revealed a trim man in a suit. He used a holder for his cigarette. Very high-class. I didn't get a good read on his face; his hat brim covered his eyes. He stayed put. Waiting, like me.

Every fifteen seconds, he took a pull on his ciggie, and it glowed like a red star. Maybe the smoker had come from down the alley. I hadn't seen because I had been watching the back door of the house.

A few minutes later, the back door of the house opened. A slim figure skulked out. My spine tingled: that old thrill of the chase. The lad popped a hat on and went to meet the cigarette-smoker at the back gate. I don't think they talked. Maybe they whispered. They went off together down the alley. I grabbed the handlebars and started walking my motorcycle after them.

They went two houses down and got into a car. I stopped and scanned for cover. I found a cluster of garbage cans and rolled the motorcycle behind them.

Just in time. The car's headlights flooded the alley. Shortly, the car crunched by me. It disappeared toward downtown. I kick-started the Harley and followed. I kept the headlight off.

I almost lost 'em a couple of times, but they ended up in the electric lights along the South Loop. Their black town car pulled over and they piled out. They went in a door under a lighted shingle that said, "Whirling Dervish."

"What's that? Some kinda speakeasy?" I drummed my fingers on the grip. "Ike, you're growing up too fast, like your sister. What're you after? Booze?" After I parked, I pulled my hat down over my eyes. I took my gun out of my shoulder holster and stuffed it where the sun don't shine. I went into the Whirling Dervish. Loud conversation, dim light, the stale funk of cigar smoke.

A bouncer about the size of a grand piano dressed in a two hundred dollar suit looked me over. He assessed my monetary worth — correctly, alas — and pointed to an area past the bar. "Cheap tables are there, buddy."

With practiced ease, he flipped my suit lapel, exposing my empty shoulder holster. He looked askance at me. I gave him a beatific smile. "Left the heat at home, pal. I'm here to enjoy myself."

The grand piano grunted, "Too right. Have a good time..."

As I drifted past him, I thought I heard him mutter, "... pretty boy."

I knew it wasn't true. I have a mirror, and I'm strictly average. I might be better-looking without the cynical scowl.

My bad mood got worse as I wandered through the dive. Gaudy flappers with copious face paint eyed me speculatively. The bar was serving booze, in violation of the 18th Amendment. The tables were for poker and blackjack. Despite the name of the place, nobody was dancing. It was loud. It was smoky.

I didn't see the kid anywhere, or the guy with the cigarette holder. The pair either went straight to the gent's room, or straight into that far door flanked by two more suits stuffed with dumb muscle. Choosing the lesser of two evils, I went into the toilet. Nobody was there except a skinny drunk holding onto the sink for dear life as his knees wobbled. I sauntered over. "Hey, pal. How much dough do you need to get into the special room?"

The man looked at me with bleary eyes. His lips twisted to a sloppy smile. "Don't need money, dumb dumb."

"Oh, really?" I said, pleasantly.

I waited. The man's lips wriggled wormily, but he couldn't get any words out. Eventually, he hiccuped mightily, then gleefully slurred, "You have to have the right family connections, that's what I mean. The right family connections. Whoa!" He grasped the sink anew, and closed his eyes.

Off duty, I wasn't obligated to watch anybody vomit. I dug into my trousers and recovered my pistol. I holstered it quick and ducked out before any retching began. I didn't try to talk my way past the double bodyguards by the special door.

I holed up in the darkest corner of the bar area and ordered a scotch, soda optional. One of the painted ladies visited for a minute. She left when she deduced the emptiness of my pockets. I killed time. The bartender saw me killing time and let me do it.

The drunk's word "family" was code. He meant one of the organized crime families in Chicago. Sicilian, Greek, or Italian, they were all close-knit and hard to crack. A smattering of sympathetic judges and city council members let them get away with murder, sometimes literally. Bruno "Iggy" Iglesias and Hack Sawyer were in one of the Italian gangs.

My posterior regions molded to the stool as I waited. Just as I decided to give up, the boys came back out of the guarded room. They both weaved on their feet as they walked. I got a good look at their faces for the first time. The skinnier one was Ike, the younger brother. The other, though, the other was Buster, the older brother. Nice looking young man with perfect black hair and a panther grace underneath his drunken walk. I groaned to myself and hunched lower on my stool.

After they left, I got up to go. I sent one more glance toward the double-guarded door. A man had come out to lounge with the bodyguards. He looked like Chief Largo! I looked again. No, it was a different guy. No walrus mustache. Same blocky build but flabbier, big enough to rival the two bruisers that flanked him. About the same age as the chief. Expensive suit. Cigar. One to be kowtowed to, apparently; the bodyguards fawned on him.

Conspicuous, I couldn't stay. I beamed a cheeky grin at the bouncer and walked out into the night. My head had started to ache.

The clammy wee hours air chilled my face. I headed for my motorcycle. I figured my job was done as far as Millie Largo was concerned. I knew what Ike was doing late at night. And my cynical prediction was spot-on. Ike wasn't out at night being noble.

A new-model Essex, painted black, parked curbside. As I passed, a door on it opened and just about bent my knee the wrong way. I jumped back. "Hey, watch it!"

A head bowed out. There were heaving sounds. My teeth bared in distaste. I wasn't on duty. I didn't have to deal with this. A voice from the driver's side said, "Sorry, mister. Maybe he overdid it, just a little."

I nodded at the driver. The electric lights allowed a moment of eye contact.

Big mistake. A point of no return. I couldn't pretend to not recognize Buster Largo. His eyes widened. "Well, hello, Lieutenant!" he said, smoothly.

"Not Lieutenant. Just Detective. You're Buster Largo. I recognize you from the times you visited the station."

Ike was the one with his face pointed to the gutter. He straightened up, right quick. "Huh? A p-policeman?" Ike was as terrified as Buster was cool. One good thing, though. Seeing me appeared to settle his stomach, even if it did nothing to improve his pallor.

"Well, nice seeing you," Buster said. "Give my regards to the old man."

I sighed. I looked skyward, then I looked at Ike. He shrank back into the seat. I said, wearily, "Not so fast. I recognize Ike, too. And that ain't good."

Ike gave a little meep of horror. Buster chuckled disarmingly. "Well, Detective, you caught us. It's just a lark, though. The kid's got to learn what's what some time."

"Some time is, what, four or five years from now? What are you thinking, Buster? Ike, what are you thinking? Ike, you hear me?" I bent low to peer into Ike's dilated eyes.

"Y-yes, Detective Lucy," he squeaked.

"Then listen good. I see you drinking again, it all breaks loose. A night in jail. Your dad mad at you. Everybody at school knows. Crime on your record. Everything breaks loose. Everything. Got me?"

"Yes, Detective Lucy."

I stared at him as he sweated and trembled. Finally, I looked over at Buster. "What's your story? I thought you were working at Vandy Prince's or something."

"That's almost right, Detective; Heber & Roe's." Buster poured on the courtesy. "Like I said, this is just a lark. A crazy fling. I know it's wrong. I'm sorry." He hung his head.

"Uh, huh." I frowned at the top of his head. That apology was about as sincere as a politician's promise. "All right, get going."

I walked off. Buster called, "Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!" before he cranked his town car to life.