"That’s a message," Mackey replied. He tapped the license plate. "Run that. It’ll come back to a shell corporation. The shell will trace to a lawyer named Levy. And Levy," he paused, letting the name hang, "keeps monsters on leashes." Across town, in the basement of the Western District, a thirteen-year-old corner boy named Donnell “Dukie” Witherspoon was learning a hard lesson: the game don't change, just the players.
Mackey smiled for the first time in months. It was a thin, mirthless thing. He had found the seam. The wire. the-wire
"We do what we always do," Mackey said. "We go where the drugs are. We turn a corner boy. We work up." "That’s a message," Mackey replied
"Go," Chris said. "And don't be short again." It’ll come back to a shell corporation
He stood in an alley, heart hammering, as Chris Partlow emerged from the shadows. No entourage. Just him.
"You short," Chris said. Not an accusation. A fact, like the weather.
Chris tilted his head. He had the calm of a surgeon. "You swear on your mother?"