“That’s right,” Bruce chuckles. “People only know two kinds of careers here. Crime, or catching criminals. You choose a team, just like sandlot.”

“But he was a dirty cop.”

Bruce frowns, taking a puff off his cigarette, then picking a piece of tobacco off his tongue. “Who told you that?” he says.

“Somebody capped him. That doesn’t happen by accident. Plus, law of averages . . .”

Bruce shakes his head. “Schultz was as clean as they come. Actual hero-type.”

“You sure?”

“As much as you can know anybody.”

“Who shot him, then? Somebody he locked up? Somebody he was investigating?”

“Could be.” Bruce shrugs. “Or . . .”

I wait, letting him enjoy the suspense.

“You know who hates a hero cop?” Bruce says, squinting at me. “A dirty cop.”

“Is that based off fact, or just a guess?”

Bruce shrugs his heavy shoulders. “Couple of cops got there pretty quick. Funny they were running a traffic stop at 1:30 a.m. in South Shore. Never seen that in all the time I lived here.”

I think that over.

Then I stand up and clap Bruce on the shoulder.

“Thanks,” I say. “You raise some interesting questions.”

“Yeah, well be careful who else you raise those questions to,” Bruce says. “Nobody likes digging up old garbage.”

No, they don’t.

But I never really gave a fuck what people like.

19

Camille

When I wake up in the morning, the sun seems horrendously bright and my head is pounding. I stumble into the kitchen, still wearing Patricia’s romper, and pour myself a giant tumbler of water from the kitchen sink. I gulp it down, feeling like a raisin dried out in the sun.

I drink and drink until my belly is sloshing. Then I set the cup down, wincing at the loud clink it makes on the counter.

I remember that line from the Jay-Z song—MDMA got you feelin’ like a champion . . .

Well, the morning after, it has me feeling like a boxer who took a hundred hits to the face and fell right out of the ring.

And that’s before I remember how I verbally vomited every single thought in my head out to Nero Gallo.

I’m blushing redder than a Ferrari just thinking about it. I told him everything. Every last secret I had. Including the fact that I’m completely infatuated with him.

But . . . it’s not a total disaster.

Because Nero told me something, too. I haven’t forgotten about it—he told me what happened to his mother. I get the feeling that’s not something he shares with a lot of people.

And then . . . oh, I definitely remember what happened after that.

Only the most brain-bending, earth-shattering, back-breaking orgasm of my life. An orgasm that probably should be illegal, because there’s no way something that feels that good can be handed out willy-nilly. It’s too much for a human being to handle.

Oh, yes, I remember every second of that encounter. It’s seared into my brain forever.

And yet, we didn’t have sex after. Nero drove me home instead.

I almost think he was trying to be a gentleman. Though, I must still be high to believe that. Because Nero is about the farthest thing from a gentleman I’ve ever encountered. Or at least he was . . . until last night.

This is too much of a conundrum for my throbbing brain to ponder. I’ve got something entirely different to worry about. Five blonde hairs tucked in the pocket of my romper. They’re still there—a little sandy, but relatively unharmed.

I tuck them into an envelope, googling the closest place to get a paternity test. I find a place called Fastest Labs, which sounds like exactly what I’m looking for. “Immediate and Comprehensive Testing Services—Walk-Ins Welcome!” Perfect.

I drive over there with my envelope of stolen DNA clutched in my sweaty little fist.

I haven’t showered or changed my clothes or washed the makeup off my face from the night before, so I’m looking significantly less cute than I did when Patricia finished working her magic on me. But I don’t give a damn. I fit right in with the rest of the people waiting for their mandatory drug and alcohol testing.

I give the envelope to a female technician. She dons a pair of plastic gloves, then uses a pair of tweezers to grab the hairs out of the envelope, holding them up under the bright fluorescent light and squinting.

“We usually want seven to ten hairs,” she says. “But you’ve got some decent follicles attached. This might work.”

“I’ve got a toothbrush from the other subject,” I say.

I pass her Vic’s toothbrush in a plastic baggie. I could have gotten a swab from inside his mouth, but I didn’t really want to tell him what I was doing, any more than I told Bella. Vic is insistent that he doesn’t care about his biological father. And maybe he really doesn’t want to know. But he needs money for school. We’re too poor to be prideful.

“I want to know the familial relationship,” I tell the technician. “If there is one.”

“No problem,” she says. “It’ll take a couple hours. Assuming we can gather enough DNA to run through the system.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll wait.”

I snag a chair in the waiting room, one positioned in the corner so I can lean my head against the wall and try to take a nap. Several times I nod off, only to be jerked awake again when the receptionist calls someone’s name at about ten times the volume necessary for the tiny space.

At least they have a water cooler. I drink about eight more cups of water, then visit the bathroom several times.

“You part fish?” an old man teases me, after my fifth or sixth drink.

“I wish,” I groan. “Then I wouldn’t be able to hear Nurse Ratched over there.”

“NAGORSKI!” the receptionist bellows at the top of her lungs, making the windows rattle.

“That’s the benefit of going deaf,” the old man says serenely. “I just turn down my hearing aid.”

It takes another hour for the receptionist to shout, “RIVERA!”

As soon as she does, I jump up to pay my $149 fee to receive my results.

I’m out of cash, so I have to put the charge on a credit card. It takes a couple tries to find one that’s not already maxed out.

“You should really pay those off,” the receptionist tells me, as my MasterCard finally allows the charge. “Carrying a balance is bad for your credit score.”

“It’s this fun game between me and the bank,” I tell her. “I like to keep them guessing.”

She narrows her eyes at me, trying to decide if I’m joking.

“Financial accountability is nothing to joke about, young lady.”

“You’re right,” I say, snatching the envelope of results out of her hand. “I’ll pay off those cards the moment I win the lottery.”

I take the envelope outside to open it.

My hand is shaking a little, and I feel a sense of dread.

I went to all this trouble to prove my theory, but the truth is, I’d rather be wrong. For the last fifteen years, Vic has belonged to me and my dad, and nobody else. He was the center of our world. We loved him like crazy. My dad built him a Transformers Halloween costume that really could transform from a robot to a fire truck. I made his lunch every day for school and drew little cartoons on the bag to make him laugh. We planned his birthday parties, his Christmas presents. We all went to Cubs games together—sitting in the shittiest seats, but it didn’t matter, because we were the perfect little family unit. Happy with our nosebleed seats and our hotdogs.