Cyrus rolled up to a duplex apartment in Bucktown. The building was a classic Chicago style—two stories, historic brickwork with red lintels over the windows, and an exterior of tortilla-colored bricks. There was a front door on the first floor and a balcony on the second floor.
Fontanelli’s van was parked on the corner. Lorenzo had the doors open and the burly man was digging around in the back.
“What’s up, Font?” Cyrus asked.
Fontanelli pulled a bucket of turquoise pellets out of truck.
“Champ, it’s like Christmas out here,” he said, grinning. His mustache was extra bushy today and he’d forgotten to button the top button on his white jumpsuit, exposing a tuft of chest hair and a gold chain with a cross. “I ain’t never seen so many rats in my life.”
A brown blur ran out from under th
