“Bipartisanship at its finest.” He clapped Pomeroy on the back. “Let’s do it.”
“Not so fast.” Pomeroy held on to his lapels. “The commission’s keeping the final decision under lock and key until shortly before Inauguration Day. The minority leader doesn’t want to make a final deal until he’s absolutely sure the bases are on the chopping block.”
“Clyde, I have to warn you. I don’t like the delay.” Senex studied the floor and looked up. “I want Brewster in the Oval Office by Inauguration Day.”
“Trust me, Sebastian.” The Speaker took Senex’s hands into his. “Have I ever failed you?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Go on in.” At the revolving door of La Gola Restaurant, Daisy Senex took Nicole Garvey by the arm. “He won’t bite.”
“Mobsters aren’t my thing,” Nicole said.
“He’s not like his father.” Daisy pursed her lips. “He writes poetry.”
“That’s nice.” She didn’t want to hurt Daisy’s feelings. Uncertain what to do, she kept her hand on the restaurant’s glass revolving door. “Is that what he does for a living?”
“Not really.” Daisy’s forehead wrinkled. “Something about insurance.”
Like the protection racket? She held her tongue. “What about our shopping?”
“Double surprise.” A smile returned to her friend’s face. “You’re surprised to be here, and Vince will be surprised I found out his birthday.” Daisy had a schoolgirl’s glow. “I really want you to meet him.”
Why not? Marco and Jim Murphy with the square jaw and playful blue eyes had pumped her for information after their Macy’s luncheon about Daisy’s mobster friend. It wouldn’t kill her to do them a favor, especially the partner with the square jaw and playful blue eyes. Any cop who wrote children’s stories interested her. Information on Vinnie “the Poet” Palomba could be her entry ticket into the world of Sparky the Squirrel and his creator.
“You win.” She pushed the revolving door. “Let’s meet your boyfriend.”
Inside the restaurant, Daisy asked for Mr. Palomba’s table. The restaurant manager escorted them to a back room closed off with beaded curtains. In that back room, a pudgy, swarthy man with a limp and a goatee gathered his things.
“Dr. Mora,” Daisy said. “How are . . .”
He brushed past her with a black fedora obscuring his face on the way out of the restaurant and out of sight.
“My, what’s gotten into him? He’s in such a rush.” Daisy turned to Nicole. “That was Dr. Angelo Mora. You know, the one who works for my father.”
Inside the back room, Daisy pecked the poker-faced Palomba on the cheek before sidling down to his right into the chair vacated by Mora. A carafe of red wine and an appetizer bowl of grilled calamari with lemon slices occupied the center of the table covered with a red-and-white checkered tablecloth.
Palomba motioned with a head jerk to a muscleman with a five-o’clock shadow seated to his left. About to shovel a forkful of food into his mouth, the underling left the room to Palomba and the two women.
“Vince, this is my friend and colleague Nicole Garvey.”
“A pleasure.” Palomba dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. He set the napkin down next to a plate of golden-crisped chicken smelling of garlic and rosemary. The chicken came garnished with bits of celery and carrots over a bed of baked potatoes and peas.
“Please, have this seat,” he said, indicating the one abandoned by the muscleman.
She sat, looking at Daisy who was transfixed by Palomba.
The restaurant manager entered full of apologies for the interruption. He held out a pocket notebook belonging to Mora. A waiter had found it near the revolving-door entrance.
“I’ll return it to him,” Daisy said, taking the notebook. “He was in such a rush he must have dropped it.”
After the manager left, Palomba turned on Daisy. “Why did you interrupt my business meeting without notice?” A vein on the side of his head throbbed.
“It’s your birthday.” Daisy’s face quivered. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“I didn’t know you and Dr. Mora—”
“That’s enough.” His tone vibrated with restrained anger. “I don’t want to talk about him now.” His face enshrouded itself in a fake smile. “Would you ladies like anything?”
Daisy shriveled in her chair. Her head shook no.
“I’ve lost my appetite,” Nicole said, watching Daisy struggling to keep it together. What did she see in this overbearing mobster? Her friend acted like a soul sister to women who love imprisoned felons.
Daisy handed her boyfriend a gift-wrapped package.
He unwrapped it and held up a book. “A collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets.” He put the book down. “Just what I always . . . didn’t want.” He turned to Nicole. “You see, I’m a postmodern poet. I don’t like rules, poetic or otherwise.”
“How about manners?” Nicole asked.
“Not phony ones.” He slid the book of sonnets across the table to Garvey. “I regift the sonnets to you.”
His rudeness prompted her to consider leaving, but she knew that would upset Daisy even more.
“Daisy mentioned,” Palomba said, “that you know Commissario Marco Leone, a relative, now in Chicago.”
“A remote cousin I discovered in Italy,” she said, seizing the chance for a conversational de-escalation. “Why do you ask?” Leone’s partner with the square jaw and playful blue eyes might like to know whatever she could find out about Palomba’s relationship to Mora.
“Daisy says he’s a creature of habit,” Palomba said. “What’s his daily routine?”
The Poet’s focus on the commissario put her on alert.
“First, Mr. Palomba, tell me all about Dr. Mora.”
“I can tell you everything, Vince.” Daisy took her boyfriend’s arm as if trying to make him face her. “Nicole says Leone has his cappuccino every morning at the Conte Di Savoia import store on Taylor Street. It reminds him of Italy. You’d love knowing—”
“Daisy . . . stop.” Competing sensations of pity and anger tongue-tied Nicole for a few seconds. “Revealing our conversations about my cousin makes me uncomfortable.”
Palomba patted Daisy on the head. “Good idea. We mustn’t make Nicole uncomfortable.” He turned back to Garvey and sneered. “Daisy and I can talk later about your Commissario Marco Leone.”
After shoving the book of sonnets back across the table to Palomba, Nicole stormed out of the room.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Seated on a plush red leather armchair in the Backroom Bar of the Meridian Club, Sebastian Senex knew the meeting requested by Vinnie Palomba spelled trouble. The torchère lamps with subdued light and shadows made the Backroom Bar Senex’s favorite place for discreet discussions.
An oval coffee table topped with Carrara marble over hand-carved mahogany separated Senex and his visitor. Two snifter glasses of Cognac rested on the table. A fire crackled in the fireplace behind Palomba while an elevator-music version of “Frosty the Snowman” wafted into the bar from the dining room down the hall. In a red vest and club necktie, a bored bartender leaned against the bar counter.
“Made in Italy?” Palomba rapped his knuckles on the table.
“Only the best for the Meridian Club.”
“How much?”
“I would never think to ask.”
Palomba lifted the brandy glass to his nose. He closed his eyes and inhaled. He sipped. “Definitely not grappa.” Scanning the room with hooded eyes, he fidgeted in his chair. Mouth open, he craned his neck to study the painted cherubs swirling on the sky-blue ceiling. “Nice digs.”
“I think so.” Palomba’s kind didn’t belong in the Meridian Club. Despite the longing written across Palomba’s face, he hoped the
mobster had the wit to know the Meridian Club was out of his league. That silent understanding would save them both from embarrassment should club membership ever cross the mobster’s mind.
Things weren’t on the level in the city. They both knew that. But a gentleman at least had the couth to pretend they were. It was simply a matter of good taste and profitable discretion. Despite his poetic inclinations, the man across from him was no gentleman.
“Why are we meeting?”
“I want a cut.”
“A cut?” Senex dug his fingernails into the soft leather arms of the chair. “We have nice cuts of prime rib or bone-in ham in our dining room.”
“Quit the smart-ass talk.” Palomba looked pained. “You’re using parabiosis to rejuvenate yourself. I know you’re buying up blood banks on the quiet. You want to cash in on making geezers young again, don’t you?” He leaned over the table. “We’re supposed to be partners.”
Daisy must have blabbed. She was more involved with Palomba than he’d expected or wanted. Marrying the mobster was now in her plans. He would become the laughingstock of the Hinky Dinks if Daisy married the boss of the Outfit.
He had only himself to blame for telling her about his private plans for operating a chain of blood banks that rejuvenated seniors with young blood. Why had he thought she could ever be the photogenic front female for the blood-bank operation? She was the spitting image of her beautiful and shrewd mother, but he had overlooked a key difference. She was her mother in everything except common sense and street smarts.
In a moment of weakness, he had confided in her how parabiosis was saving his life in order to ease her constant concern about his health. He had to. She was falling apart with worry because of her dependence on him. Fortunately, he had not told her how he and her mobster boyfriend kidnapped and killed gangbangers. And Palomba certainly wouldn’t tell.
“We’re only partners in one thing.” Senex waited until two tipsy club members had passed them on the way out of the Backroom Bar. “Street gang removal.”
He should have sent his daughter on a worldwide boondoggle to study comparative criminology before she got in over her head with Palomba. She was an overeducated and scatterbrained nitwit and always would be. That was the bitter truth he kept forgetting.
“Removal? Is that what you call it?” Palomba set down his Cognac glass. “I call it killing young gangsters for their blood.” He laughed dry and hollow. “We’re partners in blood, that’s what we are, Sebastian, whether it’s playing Dracula with gangbangers or going legit in a multibillion-dollar industry called blood banks.”
“Careful what you say.” Senex made sure the room was empty. “Anyone could walk through that door and hear us.”
“Listen up and tell me if I’m wrong,” Palomba said. “With the help of contacts in the United States Organization of Blood Banks, you have FDA and state licenses. Under the radar, you’re buying up independent blood banks and incorporating new ones. You’re planning a chain of blood banks run by you behind the scenes.” He waggled his forefinger across the table. “Very naughty, Sebastian, to be so underhanded with your partner in blood.”
“Come on, Vinnie. People don’t make money on blood banks. Otherwise the not-for-profit Red Cross would be a Fortune 500 company.” He pursed his lips. “Why would I do that?”
Palomba gave the evil eye to a nosy club member about to sit down at the next table. The stranger shuffled off to a barstool outside hearing distance.
“You’d do that,” Palomba said, “because it’s legit to create for-profit blood banks. You’d do that because you’re dreaming of huge profits by selling young blood to the sick and the old about to die . . . people who will pay any price for a chance at survival.”
“No way.” His throat ran dry. He coughed. “You know blood banks don’t pay for blood anymore.”
“Don’t try to con me.” Palomba crossed his arms. “My lawyer says it’s not against the law as long as any blood collected shows payment was made.”
“But hospitals won’t use paid blood.” He tugged at the band of his Rolex watch. “Too many health risks.”
“Sebastian, Sebastian. What am I going to do with you? Feed you to the fishes?” Smirking, Palomba shook his head. “We saw your articles of incorporation, your business plan. Cash-starved millennials and even Gen-Zers will make chump money by selling their blood, while you get to tout yourself as their friend when we both know you despise their guts.”
No use pretending. Palomba had figured it out. He held up his hands as if in surrender. “OK, OK. You got it.” He placed his palms on the table and leaned toward the mobster. “What do you want?”
“A fair street tax.”
“What do I get for it?”
“Protection.”
“I can crush competitors myself.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Palomba examined his manicured nails. “Bottom line. We also provide insurance protection against damage to your blood banks . . . like fire or vandalism. Get it?”
“I’ll give you twenty percent of net.”
“Fifty. Not a penny less.”
“Fifty percent? You must be kidding.” Senex brushed his fingers across his forehead. “At least give me something besides property protection.”
“I forgot to mention the dual coverage. It’s also life insurance.” Palomba got up. “Is your life worth the fifty percent? End of discussion.” He walked out of the room.
Chapter Twenty-Six
La Gola Restaurant appeared on the caller ID of Sebastian Senex’s retro landline. The owner had returned his call for an answer one way or another. Senex hesitated before picking up. Either answer would be painful.
Out the picture window of his Meridian Club apartment, a tugboat chugged along the Chicago River like a toy against the current. He looked across the room at Daisy with suspicion. His luncheon with Vinnie Palomba had surprised and shaken him. He now had the Outfit to contend with before they muscled their way into his affairs. Either Dr. Mora or Daisy had betrayed his secrets to Palomba about the parabiosis procedure and his plan for blood banks. No one else knew.
He picked up the receiver.
“Did a Dr. Angelo Mora lose a pocket notebook at your restaurant?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Senex. I gave the notebook to your daughter. She offered to return it to him. That was the day she and a friend came to lunch with Mr. Vincent Palomba.”
“Did Dr. Mora meet with Palomba at your restaurant on the same day?”
“He met with Mr. Palomba in our private Medici Room and passed your daughter on the way out.”
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.”
After hanging up, he felt light-headed and vulnerable. Mora, not Daisy, was the traitor. He bumped into a chair and steadied himself by holding on to its back. Mora could be dealt with when he no longer had need of the doctor’s rejuvenating services.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” Eyes red and puffy from crying, Daisy came over to him with handkerchief in hand. “Dr. Mora was in the restaurant with . . . with . . . Vince.” She choked up and broke into tears. “I never told Vince. You told me not to tell anyone. Why didn’t you believe me?”
“I had to be sure.” He didn’t want to add that he regretted sharing his confidences with her. In a moment of weakness, he thought she might have what it took to help him manage Promethean Pharma. But she was fragile, emotional, and feebleminded when it came to judging people. Even though Palomba had disrespected her at the restaurant, she forgave him. He had to resist confusing Daisy with her mother. “I’m sure now.”
She held out her arms to hug him. He let her throw her arms around him. For a fleeting moment, when she touched him, he imagined his divorced wife with skin softer than the silk robe or the pink bunny slippers he was wearing. That was all her mother and Daisy had in common.
He didn’t regret havin
g a daughter instead of a testosterone-charged alpha son who might have challenged his control of Promethean Pharma. If only she had her mother’s moxie, he would have let her manage Promethean Pharma, while he controlled her behind the scenes. Whatever his disappointment, he had to put up with her. She was blood and he knew how important blood was. But the double-crosser Mora was another matter.
“There, there, little Daisy flower.” He eased her away. “Everything’s going to be OK.”
“You’re not angry with me for making up with Vince, are you?” She hung her head. “It was my fault for surprising him at his meeting with Dr. Mora. He can get grumpy and depressed but he doesn’t mean it.”
“Of course not.” He patted her head. “You make your own decisions.”
“Thank you for letting me be me.” She took his hand. “I love Vince. He reminds me of you.”
He had the urge to strike her across the face with the back of his hand. How dare she compare him to that gangster? She would never change. Her safe zone was in the ivory tower.
“I shouldn’t have told you about my spat with Vince. You have enough burdens.” She was on the verge of tears again. “I should solve my own problems with Vince.”
He looked out the picture window. A barge inched around the bend of the Chicago River and was gone. All the distant people scurried like ants around the little buildings, appearing and disappearing. “I’m sure Vince Palomba won’t be a problem for you anymore.”
“Vince isn’t a problem, Daddy. I provoke him.” She ran a forefinger down his chest and looked into his eyes. “Are you sure Dr. Mora’s treatments are safe?”
“Don’t worry your head, Daisy flower.” He tousled her hair. “He’s improved the procedure. I don’t need parabiosis anymore. All I need are injections of what Dr. Mora calls the Ponce de León protein.”
“Daddy,” she said, holding his hands. “You look great. The lines in your face . . . almost gone.” She giggled. “I understand now why Mother fell in love with you.”
American Conspiracy Page 10
