NineteenChicago › Thursday, December 4, 2008 › 11h05
Cowboy sat leaning on his elbows with his cuffed hands arrowed out in front of him. He rolled his fingers on the cold metal tabletop, tapping out tension to the rhythm of his blue emotions. His mind was geared up for a marathon, but physically, he felt like s**t. He’d been on the road for nearly twelve hours, the last three spent cuffed in the back of a police car, unable to sleep. He glanced around the small windowless room.
He needed coffee.
There was no coffee.
No soda. No water. But there was a young detective standing over him with a creased hard pack of Dunhill cigarettes. “They were in your jacket pocket,” he said. “You want one?”
Cowboy gave a nod. “I thought it was against the rules.”
“We make exceptions when a suspect is
