Night had fallen and it was almost quitting time, but Rorschach was feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
It was not because the day's work had worn him out, nor because he was worried Gus was scheming something against him in the dark.
"What the hell are you up to?"
After parking the squad car, Rorschach's patience finally ran out. He turned to Ginny in the passenger seat and asked in a low voice.
Ever since they had left Hyde Park, the rookie had been acting strangely all day.
She kept sneaking glances at him, her eyes full of some thoughtful, probing look, as if she were trying to peer into his soul.
Rorschach could not put his finger on it, but that gaze made him feel completely on edge.
Ginny snapped out of her thoughts at his question, but this time she neither answered timidly like before nor rolled her eyes and ignored him. Instead, she squeezed out a forced smile, opened the door, and got out without a word.
Rorschach watched her through the window as she walked away, turning back every few steps. He felt puzzled, but could not be bothered to dig into it.
He had plenty of other things to worry about. A rebellious, well‑connected brat from D.C. was not worth that much of his attention.
"Um…"
Just as he was thinking this, Ginny suddenly came back. She bent down and tapped on the window, putting on a sugary smile. "What do you want for breakfast tomorrow? I can cook—uh, buy it and bring it for you."
"What?" Rorschach stared at her, thinking he must have misheard. "You're saying you're bringing me breakfast tomorrow?"
"Yeah." Ginny nodded, a little embarrassed. "I'm not very good at cooking, so I'll just buy something for you."
Rorschach gave her a long, suspicious once‑over, then shrugged. "Don't waste your time trying to butter me up. If you really want top marks on your evaluation, memorize those lessons I've been drilling into your head. Otherwise, no amount of extra effort will matter."
"Who said I'm trying to butter you up?!" Ginny almost jumped in frustration. She glared at him through gritted teeth and turned to leave, but Rorschach's voice stopped her again.
"Bring dumplings. They have to be from a Chinese place in Chinatown."
"No! Chinatown's too far!"
"Then donuts. Remember, extra‑large with rainbow sprinkles."
"I am not. That much sugar isn't good for you. I'll bring you some cereal. You can eat it with milk."
"Cereal with milk?"
Rorschach's lips twisted like he had just swallowed a fly. Starting a shift with a bowl of oatmeal and milk would make him feel like his whole life was over.
Still, her attitude shift was something. After chasing the squad car for two days, instead of hating his guts, she actually wanted to bring him breakfast?
Wait a second…
Rorschach froze, frowning slightly as he watched her hop away in her uniform, still looking more like a kid than a cop.
Was the girl planning to poison him?
——————————
Night.
It was past eight. In the streets of the South Side, police sirens mingled with Black rap blasting from car speakers, with the occasional gunshot popping off in the distance, all merging into a symphony called Freedom, U.S.A.
Rorschach was driving his second‑hand pickup, bought at a discount auction inside the department, with a heavy rock track blaring from the speakers.
It was just as loud, but unlike the rap outside, it was not all about bitches, money, gold chains, and fancy cars.
As for the random gunshots out there?
He was off duty. Why the hell should he care?
"Oh, Mama, just killed a man…"
Humming along to "Bohemian Rhapsody," Rorschach pulled up beside a two‑story wooden house.
Even by South Side standards, the place was run‑down.
White paint had peeled off in huge chunks, exposing the mottled, moldy wood beneath. Some damaged spots had just been slapped over with boards and nailed in place. The yard was littered with all kinds of junk.
This was the home of Frank Gallagher, the man he had run into at the park that morning.
As he pushed open the still‑holding‑together front door, the smell of alcohol hit him in the face like a punch.
The sofa was jammed with people. With just a glance, Rorschach spotted several of Frank's kids and their friends.
As soon as they saw him, the whole group threw their hands up theatrically and shouted over each other:
"Holy shit! Hide the gun and the weed, the f*cking cop's here!"
"F*cking cop!"
"Don't arrest me, I'm unarmed!"
"…"
Rorschach was long used to this family's brand of crazy. He went over, traded high fives all around, and asked, "It's barely evening and the place already reeks of booze like this? And you—put the whiskey down. You're not old enough to drink."
He snatched the bottles from the hands of a few obvious teenagers on the couch and wagged a warning finger at them.
Frank's eldest son, Lip, tossed him a cigarette and explained, "Frank scored a bunch of money from who‑knows‑where and bought several cases of whiskey and vodka. The bastard tried to hide them, but Carl dug them all out."
As he spoke, he slapped the buzz‑cut kid beside him who looked like a middle schooler—Frank's youngest son, Carl.
Rorschach just shrugged with a grin. He was not surprised Frank had come into money again.
The old man might be selfish, irresponsible, and completely devoid of any sense of duty, and he would not know the meaning of shame if it smacked him in the face. But his silver tongue and scamming skills were probably top‑tier even in Chicago.
Looked like some idiot had gotten taken for a ride again.
"So where is he…"
Mid‑sentence, Rorschach suddenly had a bad feeling. He darted around the room in a hurry.
Sure enough, under a table he found Frank, dead drunk and wrapped around a table leg, snoring away, having completely forgotten their agreement.
"F*ck."
Rorschach gave him an annoyed kick in the ass. He knew the old bastard could not be relied on.
"Rorschach!"
Just as he was about to beat Frank awake, a delighted cry rang out behind him.
A tall, pretty woman came flying down the stairs, arms wide, and launched herself straight at him.
This over‑enthusiastic woman was Frank's eldest daughter, Fiona—and Rorschach's first "girlfriend" back in high school.
Calling her a girlfriend was not exactly accurate, since Rorschach had never liked her.
Back in school, with his looks and build, he had been classic American heartthrob material, and thanks to Gus, even the local gangbangers steered clear of him.
With that kind of status, why would a campus legend give up the whole forest for one tree?
The problem was that Fiona was wild as hell. At a party once, she had gotten him plastered and dragged him into her room…
And the next day, she strutted around telling everyone Rorschach was her boyfriend.
Honestly, if she had not been a virgin at the time, he might really have put a bullet in her.
"Ease up, OK?" Rorschach planted a hand on her forehead and forced her to the ground, even with her legs wrapped around his waist and grinding forward.
Feeling the heat from his body just now, Fiona licked her lips, savoring it. "Ever since you became a cop, we haven't done it in forever. Let's go upstairs to my room. Don't tell me you don't want to."
"I don't want shit. I'm here to see Frank." Rorschach shoved the crazy woman away.
Maybe back in the day he might have been a little tempted, but as far as he knew, Fiona cycled through boyfriends faster than she changed underwear. He had no interest in riding something half the city had already been on.
"You're here for Frank? Did he do something?" Fiona tensed up at once.
She was not worried about Frank's life, just scared he might drag her and her siblings down with him.
Rorschach shook his head. "Nothing like that. Just tell him to call me when he wakes up. Oh, and the bathroom free? I'm taking a piss and then I'm heading home."
He ignored the look on Fiona's face, grabbed an unopened bottle of whiskey off the table, bit off the cap, and took a swig as he walked toward the upstairs bathroom.
Meanwhile, a blonde girl curled up in Lip's arms watched Rorschach's back and could not help biting her lip.
She muttered some excuse to Lip, unbuttoned two buttons of her top, and quietly followed Rorschach upstairs.
In the bathroom, Rorschach eyed the yellow‑stained toilet with distaste. He had not even unbuckled his belt when the door creaked open.
Karen slipped inside carefully, giving him a sweet smile. "Hi, Rorschach. Remember me? I'm—"
"Karen. Lip's girlfriend. And one of the South Side's most famous stamp‑collecting bitches."
Rorschach shot her a sideways look, unimpressed. "If you've got something to say, spit it out. If not, get the hell out. Can't you see I'm busy?"
Cut off like that, Karen choked on the words she had planned. But when she thought of his nickname—"Pride of the South Side," "Chicago's best detective"—she could not smother the collector's itch in her heart.
She pursed her lips, then beamed. "I just wanted to tell you there's something a lot cleaner than the Gallagher toilet you could use."
As she spoke, her hand reached for him. Rorschach frowned. "Maybe you should wash your hands first. There's enough bacteria on that doorknob to fill a petri dish."
Karen slid his belt out of his grasp and smiled. "Don't worry. I won't use my hands."
With that, she slowly sank to her knees.