American Conspiracy

by M. J. Polelle

  His misplaced cell chirped. He followed the sound to the sofa where he found it under the cushions.

  “Mr. Senex. It’s me. Angelo. Did you still want to see me?”

  “No.”

  “You sounded upset. Is everything alright?”

  “It is now.”

  “I could come over if you want.”

  “Not necessary. I found out what I needed to know.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “You’re correct, Señor Perez.” Sebastian Senex closed the vertical blinds to block the afternoon sun from his executive office at Promethean Pharma in suburban Chicago. “I’ve changed my mind.” Bands of sunlight sneaked through the slits to sparkle on his glass desktop ribbed in chrome and black oak.

  He would do business after all with the North American viceroy of the reinvigorated Sinaloa drug cartel. Through the self-defeating theatrics of the El Chapo era, the cartel had emerged more powerful and more subtle in its North American operations. To his satisfaction, the cartel had shown its derring-do in the assassination of Franklin Dexter Walker. He needed Sinaloa for the reversal of fortune he had in mind.

  “I will provide ephedrine for your meth labs.”

  “A miracle truly,” Miguel Perez said. He folded his hands, standing tall and gaunt in front of Senex’s desk. The bathroom-cleanser whiff of cheap orange-blossom cologne radiated from the Mexican and polluted the room. “Santa Muerte answers my prayers.” The S in Santa escaped his mouth as a soft hissing sound.

  “You’re joking,” Senex said, returning to his desk and sitting down. “You don’t believe in that stuff, do you?”

  “In what do you believe Me-es-ster S-Senex?”

  “This.” He tapped his chest. “Me and myself alone.”

  “Then why talk to me?” A sardonic smile creased his face. “What can I do for a god?”

  “Why do you people embrace the cult of Holy Death? You should fight death tooth and nail.”

  “You gringos.” Perez’s upper denture slipped. He pushed it back up with his fingers. “My customers are s-slaves to s-street drugs. You are s-slaves to the most powerful drug.”

  “What drug is that?”

  “Life.”

  The drug lord pressed a thumb to his upper denture and popped it out. He removed a pocketknife and poked away at food particles stuck in the denture.

  “Please, Mr. Perez.” Senex wrinkled his nose and squinted in disbelief. “Do have a seat over there on the sofa. It’s more comfortable.” He wanted this stomach-turning spectacle away from him. “There’s a box of tissues on the side table to clean your dentures.”

  On the sofa the drug lord looked pathetic with graying hair betrayed by a cheap dye job. This man who pumped illegal drugs worth billions into the Chicago area was so miserly that he collected napkins, ketchup packets, and other condiments from restaurants. It was rumored this man, protected by bodyguards in gold jewelry, inserted cardboard pieces in his shoes to conceal holes in the soles.

  No wonder he put up with ill-fitting dentures. Get implants, damn it. Didn’t this peasant have enough pride to rage against old age?

  “You want more than before . . . no doubt.” Perez’s voice rattled like gravel let loose in a neck set on broad shoulders and a bony torso. He rubbed his thumb repeatedly over the tips of his index finger. “Mucho más-s dinero, no?”

  “The money’s enough . . . but I want something else.” Senex twisted a paper clip out of shape and let it drop. “I want the destruction of the Chicago Outfit . . . Chicago Mob . . . whatever you guys call it.”

  “I have long asked S-Santa Muerte for guidance on that matter.” Heaving soft teakettle whistles through his dentures, Perez continued, “What you ask would require not only the interces-s-s-s-ion of S-Santa Muerte but that of S-Santa Ramon and Jes-sú-ss Malverde and perhaps even that of the Virgin of Guadalupe herself.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  “But first.” Perez wiped sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. “Why do you want to do this?”

  “Because your organization proved its ability in . . . shall we say . . . solving my problem with Franklin Dexter Walker.” He leaned toward Perez. “I like permanent solutions to problems.”

  “Most gracious of you, Me-ester S-Senex.” Perez bowed his head. “But not an ans-swer to my ques-stion.”

  “Besides dishonoring my daughter, Vinnie Palomba plans to extort my business. This is the desperate gasp of a weak and dying organization. With a push from you and me, we can destroy the Chicago Outfit for good.” He slapped the desk to emphasize the point. “The future is with Sinaloa if you seize the opportunity.”

  Perez clapped his hands slowly. “Bravo!” He rose unsteadily from the sofa. “But I don’t get rich on fine talk.” He came toward the desk. “What is the benefit to my organization? We already control the drug trade in the city.”

  “The Outfit has declared war on Chicago gangs. Selected gang leaders mysteriously disappear. The Outfit now attacks gang members and stops young Hispanic men trying to get ahead. Fewer drug deals are going down. The public and police are secretly pleased to see the Outfit decimate your street distributors.”

  “This is true.”

  “Dead and disappeared gang distributors can’t sell your products.”

  “We can find new people.”

  “Not anymore. They’re scared of an Outfit with its back against the wall. Street sales are way down and you know it.”

  “It is-s a problem.”

  “The bigger problem is that Sinaloa has decided to use its own street peddlers and cut out the middlemen. No more independents. That puts you and the Chicago Mob in direct conflict.”

  “I am impres-sed by your knowledge.” Perez’s face turned serious. “Will you help or do we battle alone?”

  “While Sinaloa battles the Outfit on the streets, I will mobilize the politicians and businesspeople into a crusade against them. A one-two punch to the belly and the head.” Senex mimicked his words with his left hand and then his right. As a boxing aficionado, Perez would appreciate his analogy.

  “Agreed, then.” Perez offered his hand. “But one condition.”

  “What?”

  “We are allowed to ally with the Aztec Warriors.”

  “They say they’re insanely brutal. That’s good.” Senex took his hand. “You may use the devil if it gets the job done.”

  “Some think them devils-s.” Perez tapped his cell phone and said something in Spanish. Two bodyguards entered from the outer office to escort him away.

  “One condition I have before you go, Señor Perez. Vinnie Palomba must be the first one eliminated.”

  “Of course. I learned that as a dirt farmer in my youth when I came across a snake. Chop off the head at once and the danger is over.” Perez walked out of the office.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Detective Jim Murphy tried yanking open his locker in the Thirteenth District. The lock wouldn’t budge. He kicked the locker door. “Bastards.”

  “What is the difficulty?” Marco Leone looked up from shining his Bruno Magli black oxfords spit-and-polish clean.

  “They glued my locker shut.”

  “How do you say . . . a cop prank?”

  “This is no prank.” It was the price he paid for refusing to join what corrupt cops in the unit called an escort service. For a kickback percentage, the service provided a cop to escort and protect drug dealers from being ripped off between street buys. When he refused to join, they made faces like a street john propositioning a woman and finding out she was a nun.

  “Will you report them?”

  “What good would that do?” He sat on the bench beside Marco to wait for the maintenance guy. “I have no proof.”

  After the maintenance guy drilled out the glued lock and opened the locker, Jim and his partner changed into their
undercover cool-dude duds for a night on the town. He advised Marco to ditch the oxfords for Nike sneakers. Better for running if they had to chase someone in the Rush Street neighborhood of the city’s Gold Coast. He and his partner had to take their turn doing the scut work of arresting high-priced call girls and brawling drunks, such as there were, in the cold winds that had tamped down street crime.

  Luckily, these weren’t the summer months when geezer sugar daddies in their fake hairpieces and swinging clothes swaggered about the swarming crowds on Rush Street with girls half their age. Crime rose with the temperature and skirts on those hot nights. He hoped this night would be as quiet as the last few in patrolling the triangular patch of park christened the Viagra Triangle.

  As Saturday evening fell, they headed for Gibson’s Bar & Steakhouse, the place to see and be seen, for a break from the freezing wind known as the Hawk blowing off Lake Michigan. His mood warmed basking in the restaurant’s bustle and glow. The lobby vibrated with the loud chatter of the crowd cramming forward into the bar and dining room to flee the pall of a Chicago winter.

  The light, warmth, and laughter around the bar provided the relief he needed from the streets splattered with dirty snow slush. Like moths to light, men hovered around a gaggle of young women perched on barstools in satiny dresses with legs crossed for maximum exposure. Inside the dining room, waitstaff dangled at tableside three-pound steaks raw and red like the crude but enticing energy of the city. He tensed when he saw who was at the bar.

  “Hey,” said Ansel, a District Thirteen detective in stylish jeans and sports jacket. “Whatcha doing here?”

  “Wondering the same about you,” Murphy said. Ansel’s undercover pose was pathetic. The bulge under his Harley-Davidson shirt from a police ID badge hanging on a metal chain around his neck was a dead giveaway. “You’re not supposed to be here tonight.”

  “I got business.” He licked his lower lip. “You going to rat on us?”

  “After you damaged my locker, what would you do?”

  “Before we get into it”—Ansel jerked his thumb at Leone—“I need your pal here to head south down the street a block. I got a call from the beat cop. Looks like a guy got mugged or is on drugs. He’s wandering around, no coat, shouting in Italian and getting scrappy. The cop needs a translator.”

  Murphy nodded to Leone. His partner left to help out the street cop.

  “This is your last chance, Mr. Straight Arrow. You join or we can’t trust you.” He pointed to the end of the bar where three tanned men stood.

  They looked just in from Florida for a short visit. The clothes were all wrong for a Chicago winter. Two wore paisley shirts and colored slacks. He pegged the third as the alpha male in light-blue pinstripes and Panama hat.

  “These guys need our escort, Jim.” Ansel put his hand on Murphy’s shoulder. “They’ve got a buy set up tonight, and they’re carrying a shitload of cash.”

  “Sounds good,” Murphy said. He knocked the hand off his shoulder. “I’ll escort them right to headquarters for booking.”

  “You douchebag.”

  “Unless you help me arrest these mopes, this douchebag’s reporting you to the commander.”

  “I’d expect that from a rat fink like you.” Ansel shuffled his feet. “Look, I’m shaking in my boots.”

  Ansel walked to the end of the bar, huddled with the three men, and pointed back at Murphy. The three came over. The alpha male punched Murphy from the front while the paisley shirts grabbed him from behind.

  A chorus of screams and shouts rippled through the line of bar patrons.

  Murphy broke free. He shoved the alpha male against the piano, setting off a cacophony of musical chords. The paisley shirts behind Murphy threw him to the ground and kicked him on their way out the door with the alpha male. Ansel shouted at them to stop as though he meant it. When they didn’t, he announced to everyone in the room he was going after the assailants to make an arrest.

  Murphy scrambled out the door. He couldn’t see either the drug dealers or Ansel. The bite of bitter weather congealed his nosebleed.

  Looking about to explode with bad news, Marco scurried up the street to him.

  “Let me guess,” Jim said. “The Italian doesn’t exist and the beat cop doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You should be a fortune-teller,” Marco answered.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Three police from internal affairs raided the locker room of the Thirteenth District. They threw Jim Murphy against the wall and handcuffed him. While two grabbed his arm, the third rifled through Murphy’s locker contents.

  “Get out of my locker.”

  “Quiet,” barked the internal affairs lieutenant. “You’re under arrest.”

  Commander Jack Cronin appeared in the doorway with a leprechaun smile. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “We’re looking for your boy’s cookie jar.” Turning his nose away, the lieutenant examined a pile of rumpled shirts and shorts. His hand slithered under a pack of paper forms and through the pockets of a stored uniform like a snake on the move for prey. He tossed the locker contents onto the floor. “It’s gotta be here.”

  The commander sauntered over. He tapped the lieutenant on the shoulder. “What might you be after now?”

  “He’s got crystal meth stashed here.” The lieutenant kicked the pile of Murphy’s personal possessions on the floor. “I know it.”

  “Mighty peculiar,” the commander said. “I don’t see meth anywhere.”

  “It’s not here.” The lieutenant banged the locker with his fist. He hung his head for a second before turning around and shouting at Murphy. “Where is it?”

  “In your dreams.”

  The lieutenant lunged toward him.

  The commander blocked the lunge. “I’m thinkin’ it’s time to end this charade.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because,” the commander said, “I know why you think you know it’s here.”

  “I guess I had bogus information.” The lieutenant’s face turned sheepish. “Sorry for the mistake, Detective.” He turned to the commander. “Are we all squared now?”

  “All squared,” the commander replied, winking at his godson.

  Back in the commander’s office, Murphy listened to Jack Cronin explain that the lieutenant was a bad apple protected by higher-ups who had pressured the maintenance man to plant crystal meth in the locker. When the commander discovered the setup, he had the crystal meth removed but let the raid go ahead to blow up in the lieutenant’s face.

  “How did you know he was setting me up?”

  “I have a stool pigeon in internal affairs.”

  “They’re connected to the rent-a-cop corruption in our district, right?”

  “No. It’s me they’re after.” The commander grabbed jelly beans from a jar and jiggled them in his hand. “The internal affairs lieutenant always had a hard-on for me. His way of gettin’ back at me was through you. He knew you were my godson and that I’d hired you.” He popped jelly beans into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Simple as that.”

  “I don’t think so.” He had put up with the code of silence long enough. “I know who set me up.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “You have dirty cops in the Thirteenth District. The internal affairs lieutenant must be in bed with them.” He straightened up in his chair. “They call themselves the escort service. They protect drug dealers from getting ripped off. I wouldn’t be part of it. There’s payback alright . . . against me, not you.”

  “You got no proof, Jimmy. We’ve been through this.”

  “Jim.”

  “Jim, it is.” The commander stretched his neck. “As I was saying, no proof.” He held up a helpless pair of hands. “I’ve heard the rumors . . . and that’s all they are, rumors by coppers with axes to grind.”
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br />   “We have proof. Marco and I saw Ansel at Gibson’s. He pressured me again that night to do escort service.” He turned his bruised face to the commander. “This is what I got for not going along.”

  “Let it go.” The commander ran his hand through his thick mane of silver hair. “He denies knowing they were dealers. Customers say he tried to help you. He tried to pinch the muggers after they took off.”

  “He knew the muggers were dealers.” Murphy sprang up from the chair. “He knew.”

  “You got no proof.” The commander came around the desk and put his hand on his godson’s shoulder. “I promise to transfer them for the sake of morale.”

  “They’d be getting away with it.”

  “What does your eye-talian partner say?” The commander folded his arms and looked out the office window. “Mondo . . . Mondo . . . whatever. It’s a dog’s life.” The commander packed up his things to leave for the day. “Not so glum, my boy. A dog’s life’s not so bad . . . as long as you’re top dog. And since I am top dog in this district, you’ve got nothin’ to worry about.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “I refuse to leave, Jim. That is that . . . as you say.” Commissario Marco Leone laid the newspaper on the table next to the plate-glass window of the Conte Di Savoia import store on Taylor Street. “It’s Sunday morning. I am off duty today.” He lifted a cup of cappuccino in salute to Jim Murphy across the table and sipped. “Time to relax with this excellent cappuccino. It reminds me of home.”

  “Didn’t you read this report from the Polizia di Stato in Rome?” Jim dropped it on top of the newspaper.

  The report confirmed Dr. Angelo Mora was the neofascist brother-in-law and physician of Lucio Piso, the billionaire megalomaniac, who had tried to overthrow the Italian government. By the time Italian police fully uncovered Mora’s role in the conspiracy, Marco had already left for Chicago. The report concluded: witness interrogations indicated Mora planned to assassinate Marco in Chicago.