The Crew

Lexie Green

A dope sick street kid will do anything to get high again. Anything to scratch the itchy palms, ease the stomach cramps, control the vomiting. Lexie Green had been selling herself for dope money ever since her mama kicked her out at thirteen. Still, if it hadn’t been over five days since she’d finished her last bag, she probably would have said no to Riley King when he asked her to pick up a little package from Sloan and Whiteside’s funeral home.

Christopher Robert Young aka CRY

Chris couldn’t use addiction as an excuse. He told himself he went with Lexie to keep her safe, that it had nothing to do with his struggle to avoid hustling along the harbor like Tito and the others. Selling blowjobs for forty bucks, however, pales in comparison to the macabre scene he finds in Sidney Cole’s workshop where they freeze dry the dead like special order pizzas. But even a hungry street artist will only go so far to fill his stomach, and when their double-cross turns into a triple threat, Chris escapes but Lexie does not and that fact still haunts him.

Jo Sullivan

A homeless man in a glass coffin, that’s all Jo was looking for, some new material for her column in the weekly ragWinds of Change. Cruising Lakeview looking for clues dropped by a haunting young prostitute named Lexie Green, she runs across a young graffiti artist called Cry instead. Together they find a path littered with corpses, corporate greed, and a bizarre collection of freeze-dried cadavers.

Sidney Cole

Sidney Cole’s fascination with death had soothed him since childhood. Since the first dead pigeon he kept in a shoe box under his bed so he could stroke the downy feathers, to the first failed experiment in human sublimation he should have disposed of–but didn’t. He just wanted to be left alone with his collection, with his fantasies. And Philip Quinlan had promised him peace.

Philip Quinlan

Quinlan considers himself an entrepreneur, not a murderer. If his half-mad, alcoholic brother-in-law had just remained in his sodden cardboard box on Lower Wacker Drive instead of questioning why his monthly stipend had been a trifle short the last few months–well, he would still be happily sucking on a bottle neck sticking out of a brown paper sack. And a young street artist called Cry, an intrusive reporter, and their friends wouldn’t have caused so much trouble that it was enough to drive a civilized man to murder.

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