The Southport L station was nothing more than a box of wood with a couple of turnstiles, machines where you could buy a train pass, and a smal booth for the CTA lifer, who was typical y skil ed at yawning and looking bored. Today was no exception.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” Rodriguez flipped open his badge. The woman inside pul ed her eyes up off her morning Sun-Times.
“Seen plenty of those today, honey.” She smiled and winked at me. Maybe because I didn’t flash any tin. Then she popped open a gate beside the turnstile. Rodriguez shouldered his way through.
“I’l be right up,” I said. The detective grunted and started to climb the stairs. I turned back to the woman, who used long purple fingernails to turn the pages of her paper. She settled on something that looked suspiciously like Michael Sneed’s column.
“Not too busy today?” I said. It was half past nine, stil rush hour, and I hadn’t seen a commuter yet. The woman snorted, but didn’t bother to look up. “Been here three hours, sweetie. Usual y have maybe a thousand come through by this time of morning. Another five hundred by noon. Today…”
The woman looked over at a computer screen and hit a few buttons.
“A hundred thirty-five so far. That doesn’t include cops.” She nodded in the direction of the departed Rodriguez. “Hel, we got more cops up there than commuters. That’s for damn sure.”
“You here yesterday?” I said.
“Already told your pals. Didn’t see much. Just a single pop and a lot of screaming.”
“Pretty big deal, huh?”
The woman shrugged. “I live on the South Side, honey. We get people shot up al day, every day.” She moved her eyes to the right. For the first time I noticed a smal TV. It had the sound turned down and was tuned to Fox’s morning news. The extended edition.
“My neighbor has a little girl,” the woman said. “Hit by a bul et last summer while she was sitting on her living room floor, putting together a goddamn jigsaw puzzle. Girl’s ten years old and gonna spend the rest of her days strapped to a bed. You hear about that on the