It was the seventies, and it was Chicago, and there was punk rock and street-gangs and crime. We fit in as if we’d been born into it. There wasn’t a single thing we didn’t get into if the money was right. Surprisingly enough, we were good at it—making money, that is—and we were good at twisting the little bit we did make into more. At night it was on the streets: running packages for important people, shaking our fists at unimportant people who needed a reminder, driving jacked cars to unlit garages and making sure the wrong kind of girls got to the right kind of places and home again.
During the day, it was on the ever-present construction sites. We hadn’t had much in the way of learning with respect to the trades, but we had damn well learned how to work. The men we worked with respecte
