American Conspiracy

by M. J. Polelle

  “I did read the report.”

  “You’re risking your life.” Jim bolted up from the table, almost knocking his chair over. “A gangland war is breaking out between the Sinaloa cartel and the Outfit. Last week set a record for mob killings, the most recent one in this neighborhood. We’ve been finding dead bodies in garbage cans, car trunks, the Chicago River.” He buttoned up his leather jacket. “You could be next, sitting here exposed.”

  “The victims are members of the Chicago Outfit or Sinaloa.” Marco blew on the cappuccino before sipping. “I belong to neither.”

  “You’re being stubborn.” Jim’s Irish was rising. “We know now Dr. Mora wants to kill you. Nicole told us Mora lunched with Palomba and that the Outfit boss showed a peculiar interest in your habits. Mora may have put out a contract on you.” He screeched his chair back into position under the table. “But what do I know? I’m just a Chicago detective and you’re the foreign big-shot brass.”

  “No need to worry, Jim.” Marco put on his reading glasses.

  “Your colleagues in the Polizia di Stato are worried. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “All is well.” Marco picked up the newspaper and glanced at the front page. “Now that the Polizia di Stato knows Dr. Mora is in Chicago, they will hasten to extradite him to Italy.”

  “And I’ll be on a police pension and you in a casket before that happens.”

  “It is my decision.” Marco poked his reading glasses at Jim. “If I cowered before every death threat, I would drink my cappuccino under the bed. I move not one centimeter to appease these criminal . . . dirtbags . . . as you call them.”

  “Your call.” Jim put on his cap. “I have to leave. I’m still on duty.”

  He rolled up his jacket collar and tightened his scarf as he braved the driving swirls of snow kissing his face. Taylor Street was empty except for an old-timer wiseguy hobbling down the street around patches of sidewalk ice. The aging mobsters in the Outfit were either dead, in jail, or coping with prostate problems. If his big-shot partner wanted to put himself at risk, so be it. The commissario had that mulish streak of stubbornness that Italian Americans on the force called testa dura . . . hard head.

  The scrunch of day-old snow underfoot, he jaywalked Taylor Street to his unmarked beater car. At the car he turned around to see his partner absorbed in reading the newspaper right behind the plate-glass window. As if he knew he were being watched, the hardhead looked up and waved him away.

  He took off a glove and blew warmth into his hand before reaching in his pocket for the car key. Not finding it where it should be, he warmed his breath with expletives. His partner’s refusal to take precautions reminded him of gung ho cops whose bravado risked the lives of their partners as well as their own.

  But Marco endangered only himself, and who could say for sure his partner was wrong? The street looked Christmas-card calm with a dusting of falling snow not yet sullied by traffic. Maybe yours truly was the one off base with unjustified anxiety triggered by the outbreak of criminal violence across the city. He found his car key in a back pocket. It was an omen. His day would go better.

  As soon as he entered the unmarked car, a radio dispatch from headquarters broke the silence.

  “Ten one. Emergency at La Gola Restaurant. Des Plaines and Roosevelt. Several shots heard. Officer down.”

  “Ten ninety-nine. On my way from Taylor Street.”

  “OK. Lemme know what we got when you arrive.”

  As he opened the car door to take off for La Gola Restaurant, a black Jeep Cherokee caked in winter grime cruised east on Taylor Street toward him and the Conte Di Savoia. A man in the front seat lowered the passenger window. The driver slowed to a crawl in front of the import store.

  Who opens a car window on a bitter-cold day like this?

  Running into the street, he fingered his holster.

  The passenger stuck a handgun out the window.

  “Drop the gun. Chicago police,” he yelled, withdrawing his revolver.

  The passenger fired.

  Plate glass broke and crashed.

  Murphy fired.

  The shooter slumped against the dashboard.

  The driver gunned the Jeep forward, squealing. It zigzagged eastward down Taylor.

  He positioned himself for another shot at the fleeing car.

  A Sunday-morning Wiseguy Tour bus rumbled westward toward him standing in the middle of Taylor Street.

  The Jeep Cherokee veered over street center and smashed into the front of the bus.

  The driver fled the Jeep. Murphy pursued the driver into an alley but lost him. The driver had escaped through one of the backyards. Murphy doubled back to the crime scene.

  The shooter lay sprawled across the front seat of the Cherokee with his left hand over his chest. Murphy called for an ambulance. The Wiseguy Tour passengers had exited the bus and formed a circle of gawkers around him and the Jeep. “It’s the real thing. A mobster hit,” said a passenger. “We’re sure getting our money’s worth.”

  He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned.

  Unharmed, Marco stood before him.

  “You could’ve gotten killed,” Jim said. His cell buzzed.

  “This is dispatch. I said ‘officer down.’ Where the hell are you?”

  Jack Cronin summoned Murphy into his office as soon as the detective returned from Conte Di Savoia. The commander sat transfixed by the images flittering across the TV. Uniformed police officers had cordoned off the area outside La Gola Restaurant with yellow tape warning in bold black letters: POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. Numbered evidence markers looking like tiny sandwich boards dotted the sidewalk and street outside the restaurant.

  A TV anchor reported three men had been shot in a shoot-out outside La Gola Restaurant. In what looked like another mobster hit, two gunmen were seen fleeing the scene with a plastic cooler in a Dodge Charger Hellcat. A witness claimed that after the shooting, the gunmen huddled over Vincent Palomba’s body and did something to his chest.

  Besides the reputed Outfit leader, the attackers shot his bodyguard and a patrol officer. Ambulances transported the three to Rush University Medical Center where a hospital spokesperson would shortly issue a statement.

  The commander swiveled around in his office chair. “Godson or not . . . you are responsible for this.”

  No use denying it anymore. The Murphy’s Law ridicule fit him to a T. Some leprechaun must have cursed a Murphy ancestor.

  “Let me explain. I had an impossible choice.” Still standing, he grasped the back of the guest chair facing the commander’s desk. “Marco was about to be shot.”

  “And Vinnie Palomba was really shot. If you had responded at once, he might not be in the hospital.” Cronin took the police baton he had kept ever since his early days on patrol. He beat it methodically in the palm of his free hand. “If he dies, you put me in a tough spot.”

  “You’re worried about Palomba?” Murphy white-knuckled his grip on the back of the chair. “Not about our patrol officer in the hospital?”

  “That too, that too.” Cronin jabbed the baton at him. “You disobeyed a dispatch assignment without even requesting reassignment.”

  “I didn’t have time. I had to save Marco.”

  The image on the TV monitor switched from a diarrhea-treatment commercial to a spokeswoman for Rush University Medical Center announcing that Palomba’s bodyguard was stable, but the patrol officer was in critical condition.

  “Five days’ suspension for neglect of duty.” Cronin held up his hand. “If you weren’t my godson . . .” He left the sentence incomplete. “You’d better get on your knees and pray no one dies.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us Vincent Palomba’s medical status?” a reporter asked the hospital spokeswoman on screen.

  “Vincent Palomba suffered a nonlethal gunshot wound.”

 
“Does that mean he’s alive?” the TV reporter asked.

  “No.”

  “Which is it?” the reporter pressed. “Dead or alive?”

  “Dead.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “His heart was removed from his chest cavity.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  After a bout with the punching bag in the back room, Jim Murphy ordered a Guinness in Dugan’s Irish pub on Halsted while awaiting Katie. His sister had called to say she was running late. Her voice vibrated an excitement untypical of the placid personality that could sometimes annoy him. If she had a meditation mantra, it would be I have things under control. Something thrilled her. She wasn’t coming just to commiserate over his suspension.

  She entered in a flurry and took the barstool to his right. A burly bartender with a Slavic accent switched TV channels. He took her order for a shandy and scuttled off.

  “What’s with the new East European bartender,” she asked, “in an Irish pub?”

  “Same thing as an Irish pub in Greek Town. It’s called diversity.” He jerked his thumb in the bartender’s direction. “Ivan’s decreed no news tonight. Only the Blackhawks game, like it or not.”

  She put her hand on his arm. “Wanna talk about the suspension before I get to my news?”

  Once a nurse, always a nurse. His big sister always put others’ needs before her own. And he loved her for it.

  “Nothing to talk about.” He rocked the Guinness bottle back and forth in his hands. “I can’t figure him out. Blaming me for Palomba’s death.”

  “The commander’s under pressure, Jimmy. Your police district is on the frontline of the war between the Outfit and the Sinaloa cartel. He needs a scapegoat.”

  “So much for Bridgeporters-gotta-stick-together.” He took a slug of Guinness. “Something’s not right. He’s too upset by Palomba’s death.”

  “His job’s on the line.” She glanced up at the TV soap commercial. “You know how you felt about . . . the Millennial’s assassination.”

  “I do. I could’ve prevented the assassination.” He rubbed the counter with his hand. “I didn’t try to blame someone else.”

  “Unlike some people I know, self-flagellation is not his style.”

  “I didn’t deserve five days suspension for preventing the high-profile killing of a foreign police commissioner.” He fixed her with his eyes. “Imagine how Marco’s death would’ve played out in the Italian press. Instead the commander’s beside himself with the death of a mobster.”

  “You’re talking a load of malarkey now, Jimmy.” She removed her hand from his arm. “It was a love tap. You’re lucky the wounded patrol officer is on the mend. Anyone else in your shoes would have gotten far worse . . . and you know it.”

  “The way he overreacted about Palomba’s death.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Chicago’s never seen anything like this. Worse than the Roaring Twenties,” she said. “It’s all over the news about the Outfit crew boss found decapitated with a chainsaw.” She sipped her shandy. “The Aztec Warriors are taking over.”

  “I don’t think so.” He took a handful of counter popcorn. “I think Sinaloa’s behind this.”

  “Why?” With a compact mirror in hand, she attended to a facial zit. She saw him watching. She snapped the compact shut.

  “The Aztec Warriors are ruthless psychopaths, but they’re too disorganized to be the brains. Sinaloa used them in the past as mercenary shock troops.” His attention drifted to a TV hockey player recycling through the penalty box, ready to commit another penalty. It reminded him of his revolving-door teenage confessions before Father Malachy. Bless me, Father, for I have had impure thoughts. “Sinaloa’s using them to do the dirty work before moving in.”

  “Whoever it is,” she said, “the Outfit’s losing control of city crime.”

  “Enough about me.” He pushed the popcorn bowl down the bar counter beyond his reach. “What’s the news you’re dying to tell me?”

  “Sebastian Senex.” Her eyes brightened and her voice perked up. “He’s taken over Good Samaritan Blood Bank where I work.”

  “So? Nothing illegal there.”

  “I did a little checking. He’s trying to take over other blood banks in the city. Highly suspicious, I’d say.”

  “Suspicious?” He rolled his eyes up. “Come on, Katie. It’s not a crime to buy blood banks.”

  “That’s not all.” She looked around and then back at him. “Through a straw man, the Outfit tried to buy a blood bank for themselves.”

  “With the bloodbath on the streets, they’ll need the blood.”

  The Blackhawks were hopelessly behind already in the first period.

  “Get serious, little brother.” She poked his arm the bossy way she did when they were children. “Breaking news. A relative identified the dead Outfit straw man.”

  “The guy found in an alley off Ashland two days ago?” She had his full attention. “Stuffed in a fifty-five-gallon drum?”

  She nodded. “The deal fell through . . . and guess who bought the blood bank.”

  “Don’t tell me.” He closed his eyes and touched his forehead like a mock soothsayer. His eyes sprang open. “Sebastian Senex.”

  “You nailed it.”

  His cell buzzed.

  “Hi, Marco. Anything on the Palomba killing?”

  “I want to inform you.” Marco paused. “Three Aztec Warriors have been arrested in a house of safety for the La Gola homicides.”

  “House of safety? Oh, safe house.” He scratched his head. “What’s the proof?”

  “They took a plastic cooler from the crime scene.”

  “What’s that got to do with the murder?”

  “They were arrested in the act of devouring Palomba’s heart from the cooler.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Waiting for the latecomers to shuffle in, Sebastian Senex, the newly elected president of the Windy City Reform Council, scanned members and their guests packed into the dark-wood banquet hall of Maggiore’s Ristorante. They nattered at tables covered with white tablecloths and sparkling cut-crystal glasses.

  He no longer needed eyeglasses to discern the details of their expectant faces. Friends and associates increasingly remarked on his more youthful appearance. He put the text of his inaugural presentation on the lectern.

  Clear skies lay ahead for him and Promethean Pharma.

  Now that Vinnie Palomba was dead, only three persons . . . he, Daisy, and Dr. Angelo Mora . . . knew the secret of his physical regeneration. The way was open to reduce that number to only him and his daughter. Last week Mora had discovered the silver bullet of the Ponce de León protein in blood plasma by pursuing the lead of an assistant researcher.

  He no longer needed the whole blood required by parabiosis treatments. If the trial period for the protein ended as Mora anticipated, he would no longer even need injections of the Ponce de León protein. At that point Mora believed his metabolism would be reset to a youthful age. And then Mora would become disposable.

  Trusted scientists at Promethean Pharma could carry on once he announced to the world the discovery of the Ponce de León protein and the chain of clinics he would open in the Midwest. He would register the Ponce de León protein with a tangle of patents to protect his billions in profits. He would chase the monkey of success all the way to the bank. He might even buy the bank.

  For a king’s ransom, he would make the old young and the lame walk. With an army of graying baby boomers behind him, he would conduct a crusade against aging. He would become the true savior of mankind with the difference that he would establish his kingdom of eternal life here on Earth. Lest he be accused of mercenary motives, he would pay the Gen-Xers, the Gen-Yers, and the Gen-Zers for their blood. But no more than strictly necessary.

  The nation�
��s youth would no longer have to become squatters in abandoned buildings due to a lack of affordable housing and crushing student loans and slave-wage gig work. He would take their blood and turn them into private welfare recipients dependent on the stream of revenue from their periodic blood donations. The younger the blood, the higher the sum he would pay.

  But today the topic of his inaugural address to the Windy City Reform Council was different. He looked down at the title of his prepared remarks laid out on the lectern: “Whack the Chicago Outfit for Good.”

  One bang of the gavel snapped the audience to attention.

  After the usual formalities, he opened his presentation with a disinformation offensive that would have done the Russians proud. Chicago’s organized crime syndicate, he alleged, had instigated the crime wave by kidnapping selected gang members in order to provoke a war with unorganized bands of poor and disadvantaged youth whose circumstances had forced them into a life of crime. The crime syndicate, known as the Chicago Outfit, and now in decline, had been reduced to fighting the gangs for a greater market share of lower-level crime in the city.

  He made the lie more believable by making it bigger. He announced that the Outfit was planning to move into the lucrative but illegal procurement of human organs for desperate patients. The FBI had discovered (and he knew because he had planted them there) over a hundred organ transplant carriers in an Outfit social club. He forced indignation into his voice. As he hoped, horror and disgust spread across the faces of the audience like a contagion.

  They did this, he said, not by buying organs, illegal though that might be under the National Organ Transplant Act of 1984. No! Instead the Outfit planned to not just simply kill gangbangers encroaching on its profits but to pluck whatever organs they fancied from the fresh corpses of the gang victims. Al Capone at least had some standards. The gangster’s heirs had none! The lives of young Latinos and African Americans trapped in ghettos were disproportionately at risk. Minority lives matter, he boomed in his most righteous voice recently reinvigorated by Mora’s blood therapy. He was on a roll to unimagined power and influence. Nothing could stop him now. He pushed away the microphone. He didn’t need it. The voice of an old man on the verge of death had become the roar of a young lion.