Done for a Dime by David Corbett

says there were slingers working this corner earlier in the night. One of them got into it with the vic.”
    Stluka rolled his eyes. “There anybody that old man didn’t get into it with last night?”
    “Gilroy was taking all the info down when, finally some luck, same kid waltzes in. Guess who?”
    Murchison reached into his pocket, pulled out the Polaroid gone over with Marcellyne Pathon, now with the handwritten names on the back. “One of these guys?”
    Hennessey waved him off. “You already got the name. I gave it to you. He was up there prowling the street outside the Carlisle house.”
    “Arlie Thigpen.”
    “One and only.”
    Murchison felt a pressure that had been building inside him give now, just a little. He’d not confided it to Stluka, but even before the harangue he’d endured at the hands of Miss Carvela Grimes he’d come out of the room with Toby Marchand thinking, Where’s the fit? He’d lied, sure; he had at least one bad companion. And yeah, there was heat between him and the vic. But from everything he’d heard, a guy like Strong Carlisle, he made it his daily business to stir up heat.
    On top of that, Toby’s eyes weren’t blank; you could see through them to who he was. A little too smart for his own good but also the kind who, if he’d done it, would have caved with less pressure than he’d taken. He hadn’t messed with his face or hair, hadn’t sat there guarding his breadbasket. His anger built during the interview, instead of going off first thing—all of which pointed more toward innocence than guilt. God only knew what the father-and-son story was or how long it would take to winnow it out. Regardless, it seemed irrelevant now.
    “Gilroy have the sense to detain this Thigpen kid?”
    “Oh well, now here’s where it gets vivid.” Hennessey shook his head, a story coming. “Kid strolls in. Owner nods to Gilroy, like, It’s him. Gilroy goes hands-on, says, ‘A word outside,’ and the kid streaks. Being J. P. Stupid—I mean, they worked this same fucking corner tonight, you’d think he’d know—he tries to scoot down the alley just beyond Price Town, the sofa joint? It don’t go nowhere. Even a box of rocks like Gilroy can handle him trapped like that.”
    “This Thigpen kid, he’s in custody?”
    “And Gilroy’s at ER. Goofed up his wrist or something.”
    “Hot pursuit.” Stluka’s contribution.
    “The owner, he around?”
    Hennessey pointed inside. A small, miserable-looking man sat in the dimness behind the cash register. Murchison gestured for Stluka to follow him inside, but before he reached the door a faint sound caught his ear. Glancing up at the corner lamppost, he spotted the source—a small speaker, from which emanated a tinny rendering of what he believed was Mozart, Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. The broadcast came to them courtesy of the city council. It was a recent brainchild, offering a nightly assortment of classical favorites at key downtown gathering spots. The purpose was not aesthetic; the music was meant to discourage loitering, stave off drug deals, irritate the hookers.
    The liquor store owner, like most in town, was known to the police. This one’s name was Abdul Hussein, but he went by “Tony.” He was a Fijian Muslim, bony and small, with a graying shock of matted hair. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, tube socks, and sandals, with a trench coat draped over flannel pajamas. A stocking cap rested so high and loose on his head it looked like someone else had perched it there without his knowing.
    As soon as Murchison and Stluka were inside the door, Tony Hussein snarled, “Try to be good citizen. Tell what I see. Tell what I know. Look!” He shook his head, wincing in disgust at the rusty twenty-five-pound anchor on the floor, bedded in shattered glass. “Little shitfucks. You guys really scare ’em, huh?”
    At the West County Med Center ER, Murchison heard Gilroy’s voice from behind the last blue curtain.
    “I’ve chased him into