He’s a benevolent dictator. My father told me that at one point, every single business in northwest Chicago paid a 5 percent protection fee to the Gallos. The Irish had the northeast. But when the Gallos moved into the construction racket, they dialed back on the old-school extortion.

Now I see their name on high-rise sites in the downtown core. I really can’t picture Nero working a backhoe. Now, burying a body under a foundation . . . that I can definitely see. I bet he’d smile while he did it.

No, if Nero left money, it wasn’t to be nice. It’s because six hundred bucks is pocket change to him.

Not to me, though. I stuff it in my coveralls. That’s two month’s groceries, or a quarter of the rent. I’ll take it, even if it fell out of the devil’s pocket.

I finish topping up the fluids on the Accord, then I head into the tiny front office to pay a couple bills.

As I’m messing around with our online bill pay, my cellphone starts buzzing. I pick it up without looking, thinking it’s Vic wanting a ride home from work.

“Did you miss me yet, Camille?” a male voice says.

I cringe away from the phone, looking at the name on the display: “Officer Dickhole.”

“I really hadn’t had a chance to miss you,” I say. “Try staying away longer.”

He chuckles. “I knew I picked the right girl,” he says. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Organizing my socks.”

“Think again. You’re going to Wacker Drive.”

“What’s on Wacker Drive?” I ask innocently.

“You know exactly what,” Schultz says. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you down there.”

“I fix cars. I don’t crash them into pylons,” I say.

“Well I’m sure you’ll enjoy the show either way,” Schultz says. “Cozy up to Levi. Start making best buds with all your high school friends again.”

I shiver. Schultz knows my connection to these people. He’s learning more about me. Not to be friendly, I’m sure. He’s sinking his hooks in deeper and deeper.

I keep all my clothes in the coat closet. My little makeshift room doesn’t have a closet, or any space for a dresser. I only have a few outfits anyway. Most of them look the same. Jeans. A couple T-shirts. Undershirts that come in a pack of five from Hanes. A pair of shorts that used to be an old pair of jeans.

I pull those on, along with some sneakers and a T-shirt. Then I look in the bathroom mirror. I pull off the navy bandanna that holds back my hair. My curls spring up, frizzy in the summer humidity.

I would like to have Beyoncé curls. What I actually have is Howard Stern curls, where they stick up everywhere like I’ve been electrocuted. Even the ends are a little lighter from the sunshine, like they really did get zapped with ten thousand volts. I usually keep them tied down.

There’s no way I’m wearing my hair down. But I can at least put it up properly. I rub a little shea butter in it, then twist it up in a bun on top of my head. Some curls poke out, but I don’t care. It’s good enough.

I get my Trans Am and cruise down to Lower Wacker Drive. Wacker is like three freeways stacked on top of each other. The top two streets carry traffic, but the lowest road is much less busy. It runs parallel with the river, with heavy support beams bracketing the road on both sides.

I have been here before, once or twice, though apparently not when Schultz was around to see. I couldn’t resist watching some of the fastest cars in the city face off in illegal street races.

It’s not just drag racing. It’s drifting and burnouts, too. Every once in a while, a race gets out of control, and somebody crashes into a parked car or a pole. That somebody was Nero Gallo last fall, or so I heard. He crashed his beloved Bel Air racing Johnny Verger. It was stupid of him to even try—a classic car can’t compete with a brand-new BMW, not in speed or in handling, no matter what modifications Nero made to it. But that’s his problem. He has his normal level of crazy. And then he has his moments where he seems to crave pure immolation. He’s somebody who wants to go out in a blaze of glory. The “going out” is more important than the “blaze of glory.”

When I get there, I see half a dozen cars with the headlights on, circling lazily, with a dozen more parked around. I see Supras, Lancers, Mustangs, Imprezas, a couple M-2s, and one chromed-out silver Nissan GT-R.

I park my car and join the loose crowd, looking around for people I know.

I spot Patricia Porter. She’s a pretty black girl who was a year ahead of me at school. She’s got her hair pulled up in a high pony, and a little gold hoop through the side of her nose.

“Patricia!” I call.

She looks up, taking a second to fix on me, before she breaks into a grin.

“I haven’t seen you in forever,” she says.

“I know. I’m boring. I don’t go out.”

She laughs. “Same. I work a lot of nights, so unless somebody wants to meet for brunch when I get off . . .”

“Where do you work?”

“Midtown Medical. I’m an x-ray tech.”

“I’m surprised you’re not glowing, then.”

“I mean, I wear a lead apron. But yes, I’ve developed several superpowers so far . . .”

I’m happy to see her. It’s nice to remember that not everybody I went to school with was an ass. Just most of them, unfortunately.

Speaking of which, there’s Bella Page prowling around. Not with her little minions this time, but with some guy I don’t know—he’s wearing a denim jacket and he’s got sort of an Eastern-European look, all slicked-back hair and high cheekbones. There’s a cross tattooed on the side of his neck.

He’s the one that owns the GT-R, apparently. He’s got great taste in cars, if not in women. They call it the Godzilla for a reason. You can go around the pilings in one of those like you’re doing slaloms down a goddamned mountain.

I was planning to hold really still and hope Bella didn’t see me, until Patricia yells, “Hey, Bella—where’s your bookends?”

Bella frowns at us, annoyed that we got the first shot off before she even saw us.

“They’re not here tonight,” she says.

“That’s weird,” Patricia says. “I thought they were surgically attached.”

“It’s called having friends,” Bella says, in her sweetest, most condescending tone. “That’s why we’re The Queen Bees, and you two losers are barely Ds.”

I shake my head at her.

“You really haven’t changed since high school,” I tell her. “That’s not a compliment.”

“Yeah. You know you guys gave yourselves your own nickname. That’s lame as hell,” Patricia says.

I snort.

I don’t know who first called them The Queen Bees, but I can certainly imagine those three bitches sitting around brainstorming. Probably took them all afternoon.

Bella narrows her eyes at us until they’re like two bright blue vertical slits.

“You know what else hasn’t changed since high school?” she says. “You two are still ugly, poor, and completely jealous of me.”

“Well, you got one out of three right,” I tell her. “I am pretty broke.”