Death of a Pusher

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The kid’s name was Herman Joyce. He was twenty-one but could have passed for eighteen. With his lank blond hair cut in a ducktail, his black leather jacket and shapeless slacks, he looked like a typical street-corner punk. It was a good disguise. By the way other cops passing in and out of the squadroom left us strictly alone, it was obvious they assumed we were questioning a suspect.

Actually, Herman Joyce was a rookie cop we had borrowed from Metro for a little undercover work.

“You’re sure he’s not suspicious?” I asked him.

He gave me a youthful grin. “Why should he be? Two different junkies gave me character references.”

Carl Lincoln said, “Don’t get overconfident, Hermie. Benny Polacek is no dunce.”

“He’ll show,” Joyce said. “I’m to be in the alley next to the Adams Furniture Store at nine P.M. That gives you three hours to get a camera set up.”

“That’s down in my old part of town,” I said, frowning. “He picked a fine spot. There’s a warehouse across the street with no windows in front and there’s a blank wall on the opposite side of the alley. What do you mean, he’s not suspicious? He wouldn’t go to all that trouble to make a single sale if he didn’t smell some kind of rat.”

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