Chapter 9The police would call it a stakeout. A private investigator would call it sneaking around.
Hopefully it would yield the same results.
Midnight, nearly forty-eight hours since the shooting death of a man named Bobby Decca. A single bullet to the center of his forever-scorched forehead had done the trick, eliminated a life, the third similar death in the past three months. First, a nasty west-side thug named Mickey Dean, then a young, impressionable NYPD officer named Denson Luke, and now this Decca guy, who, based on where Jimmy stood, was nothing but a shady, opportunistic fence who no doubt trafficked in illegal items. Hot items. Because he stood across the street from an area that remained cordoned off by yellow police tape. The business was called The Decca Exchange, which wa
