Detective Inspector Laddy McClain said. He travestied a child's fluttering good-bye wave at the ambulance that was hauling away the remains of Big Sid Sedlacek and Mickey Egan. “And good-bye to you, Mul,” he added. Mulheisen didn't acknowledge that remark. He looked at his cigar, which had gotten wet and no longer tasted very good. He was reluctant to heave it away, however. It had cost too much and was only half-smoked. “You know something, Laddy . . .” he said finally. He bared his teeth in a grimace that could have been a smile but almost certainly was not. It was these teeth that had earned him the street moniker Sergeant Fang. “Whenever you've got a case you don't like, you shuffle it off on the precinct. I don't complain. But now here's this mob shooting, and you don't even suggest we do the prelim. Now why is that?” McClain patted him on the shoulder. “I know how overworked and understaffed you guys are, Mul.” “No. That's what you guys are,” Mulheisen reminded him.
