Prologue: Consultant

Chicago. The moment I set foot in this city, I knew I was in love.

Noise twenty-four hours a day, morning and evening traffic jams that make you want to strangle yourself, and a sharp, foul stink in the air, complete with dust particles you can see with the naked eye. No wonder even the outdoor cafés have a “smoking section.” Given the alternative of breathing on the street, I imagine people would rather find a smoke-filled corner, stick a few smoking pipes into their lungs, and get what's left of their lives over with.

This is a typical working-class city, a city that belongs to working people. Even tickets to games are cheaper than elsewhere in the Star Commandery. Downstairs from my rented apartment, chili cheese dogs sell for just three bucks apiece, and I have at least one every day. The hot-dog stand bathes in exhaust fumes, its owner never washes his hands after using the toilet, the frankfurters are made from pork of unknown origin, and the buns from flour of unknown origin. Put them together and pour on hot cheese and chili bought wholesale from a supermarket and about to expire. The moment you stuff one of these hot dogs into your mouth, you understand what life is like for an ordinary person. What you're tasting is the taste of being alive.

I've been here nearly three weeks now. Every night I visit at least three or four bars, and almost every one asks me for ID. It really amazes me how bad these bouncers' eyesight is. Even my real ID says I'm already twenty-one. Never mind... Over these past two weeks and more, amid chicks looking for a one-night stand, chicks looking for a steady relationship, gay men looking for a one-night stand, gay men looking for a steady relationship, and a few people hitting on me whose indeterminate gender made their sexual orientation equally indeterminate, I've finally managed to get a general picture of the local gangs.

I still remember the first Black dude who spoke to me. We chatted a little at the bar, and I said, “Hey, buddy, got anything that'll get a guy high?”

He said, “Yes, of course. Look, this is called a badge. Feeling a little warm now, aren't you? Kid, you're under arrest. Come down to the station for a drug test. Also, I think you're racist. Need me to read you your rights?” As he spoke, he pulled out his credentials and a gun.

Good thing I ran fast that day, or I'd have been caught by some ordinary plainclothes cop. And this guy actually called me racist? He was sitting at the bar in a tank top with a suit jacket over it, eight rings on his hands, and a gold chain as thick as a dog chain around his neck. With that standard-issue pimp getup, if I wasn't supposed to ask whether he had drugs, was I supposed to ask whether he had girls?

Leaving that entrapment artist aside, another time I met a blond man with short hair sticking straight up. Middle-aged, but without a beer belly, and with a scar on the back of his hand. He looked like a veteran or something. He had a briefcase with him and sat alone in a corner wearing a leather jacket. He had the air of some big boss's right-hand man, the sort you entrust an important deal to.

So I went over and talked to him in underworld jargon for about half an hour. He said his name was Ted, and his answers certainly suggested he was a big shot. Then he opened the case and showed me the “goods” inside. A whole briefcase full of soap. Yes, he wore a leather jacket, had blond hair and a scar on his hand, carried soap in a briefcase, and was called “Ted.” Okay, we've all seen that old movie, but few people take it this far. Isn't role-playing in a bar a little too much excitement for a man your age?

A few times I tried to start trouble, hoping to flush out at least a few gang flunkies, but unfortunately my luck was truly lousy. Every time, I ran into vicious-looking, law-abiding citizens. They'd smash bottles, shove you, and punch you in the face, but use just the tiniest bit of actual fighting technique to put one of them down, and they'd lose their nerve. That was the end of the show. The bouncers would come over and show the troublemakers out, or call the police straightaway. Believe me, every time, the first to arrive would be a plainclothes cop dressed like a pimp.

Anyway, I suppose this experience qualifies as a setback. Still, as they say, you learn from your mistakes. What I've learned from all this is that those movie scenes where someone walks into a bar and immediately gets valuable information out of the bartender and whatever drunk happens to be sitting beside him are nothing more than a director's brain damage or a screenwriter's cerebral shit hemorrhage brought to the screen. I get more information watching the Empire's TV news than I can wheedle out of people in bars.

More than twenty whole days of my life wasted, talented fellow that I am. Finally, today I have a chance to meet a member of the Lucchese family. I hope the plan goes smoothly, because I have a fairly high opinion of the Lucchese family's strength, and besides, I don't want to rack my brains trying to make contact with the Genovese family. God knows how much longer that would take.