Anne Keegan
What Readers Say:
"’On the Street Doing Life,’ captures the gritty reality that cops face working dope on the west side of Chicago. No cop did it better than Mike Cronin and I'm proud to say I had the opportunity to work with him."
Philip Cline, Superintendent
Chicago Police Department
“Mike Cronin … He got injured in Vietnam in the ‘60s. Came back. He couldn’t get on the Police Department. He only had one leg. And my dad put him on… Was my dad right? Yeah, my dad was right. This guy is the best policeman. He was a commander. We’re bringing him back as a civilian, he’s so good.”
Richard M. Daley, Mayor
City of Chicago
(Quoted in Chicago Sun-Times,
Feb. 19, 2007)
"In 'On the Streets Doing Life,' Anne Keegan gives readers a rare and fascinating tour of how life plays out on the West Side through the eyes of Mike Cronin, a legendary Chicago cop who knows those streets better than anyone. Keegan pulls no punches, but neither did Mike Cronin."
Dick Devine
Cook County State’s Attorney
This unique and intimate account of a legendary Chicago gang crimes cop is raw, moving, funny and sad – unlike any other book you’ve ever read.
In the honest, poetic and profane language of the street, Keegan reveals a real cop striving to walk the fine line between toughness and fairness, the ability to enforce the law without being brutal, to not take things personally and to play by the rules when the criminals don’t have to, or don’t want to. Mike Cronin eventually rose to head the Chicago Police Department’s two most elite units – gangs and narcotics.
This is the story of the humanity he brought to and found on his city’s most troubled streets.
Anne Keegan is an experienced reporter, writer and columnist who worked for the Chicago Tribune for over 25 years.
She lives on the north side of Chicago with her husband, Leonard Aronson, a television producer, and is the mother of one grown son, Patrick, who lives in Asia.
She lives in an old house with a big yard and has managed to tame an Irish Wolfhound named Oona, and an old English bulldog named Tugboat.
This is her first published book.
"YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN ME, CRONIE.
I WAS GOOD ONCE."
There was Rat, loping down Madison street with a wide easy gait, totally involved in fried chicken. He wasn't looking up, or around or behind, like he normally would do. He was too hungry. He had a cardboard food container up three inches from his mouth like a trough and his eyes were on the cole slaw and fried chicken that his fingers were shoveling into his mouth. Forget the plastic fork.
Rat was eating the way he's lived his life-- on the run. But Rat wasn't up for running tonight. Just easy loping and letting the food slide down as he was passing the bar-b-que and chicken joints, their neon signs blinking with half the letters burnt out, passing the open doors of saloons where the smell of stale beer was still sticking to the floor.
Passing the guys on the corner, and he knew them all, passing through the sweet smell of reefer left by someone who'd exhaled and moved on. Passing the old timers leaning against the windows of an out-of-business store front church, enjoying a Kool they begged from a smart looking fox with red nails and a cigarette laugh. Passing the young slicks in hooded sweatshirts who nodded and let him pass unhassled because they'd heard that Rat was good once.
"Straight up, it’s true man, he was better than his brother Isaiah."
Better than anyone on the West Side has ever been. Could have been better than anyone in the country. Could’ve. Could’ve been a millionaire. Could’ve been a celebrity. Could’ve been on TV and owned a ranch house you'd see in Ebony magazine. Could’ve escaped off Madison street. But the fast life had grabbed onto his ankles and hadn't let go. So partly in respect for what he could’ve been and partly because of who Rat's brother was, Rat loped unmolested down the sidewalk, a 'could’ve been' that nobody bothered anymore.
This night, Rat was not worrying about nothing, including the police and that wasn't like Rat. For Rat was a man with pepper in his shoes. The very sight of a police car would have him hot-footing over a fence, down a gangway and out of sight. He was no longer the athlete he once was but he could still ditch his own shadow.
He hadn't eaten in over 24 hours. He was tired and his chest hurt. It had been hurting a lot lately. With a little food going down, he was starting to feel good. And he'd feel even better in a little while. So he kept loping easy, his eyes on his food, his guard down and then....
"Rat!"
And there was Mike Cronin climbing out of the squad car just five feet in front of him. Cronin, getting out fast, without closing the driver's door, heading right for him, and yelling like he always does: "Rat!"
"Cronin!" said Rat, looking up, a look of ambush in his eyes. Was there a warrant out on him? Must be or Cronin wouldn't be yelling. Rat dropped his chicken plate flat on the street and took off. Cronin took off after him, the two running down the street, but the police officer fell quickly behind. Rat was around the corner and gone. Cronin was still shouting before the turn.
"What was that?"said a woman whose arms were filled with groceries who had turned to watch.
"That's just Rat and Cronin," chuckled an older man. "They do that all the time."
