The reporter rattled off statistics proving the party was growing by leaps and bounds. Conservatives wished it were more liberal and liberals wished it were more conservative, though its innovative policies introduced by President Chang could often be interpreted either way. It provided a Goldilocks political diet for nonideological Americans starved by the stale fare of the two-party system. The energy of this third political party had taken the pundits by surprise.
President David Chang had federalized the Illinois National Guard to assist Chicago police in crushing the turf war between the Outfit and the Sinaloa drug cartel. The gangland killings in broad daylight had come to a quick end. Citizens felt safe again on the streets.
It was as though the city, like the country, was emerging from a drunken hangover. A grateful public rewarded the political party they considered responsible for not letting politics get in the way of the general welfare. The duopoly of Republicans and Democrats had loosened its stranglehold on the nation’s political life.
“I have to get to work,” Katie said coming back from the restroom. She whispered in her brother’s ear, “Thanks for making up with Bryan for my sake.”
“Don’t mean to be rude but I did it for both our sakes.”
“Works for me.” She gave him a kiss and left Dugan’s.
After a commercial break, the TV screen panned to workmen installing a nameplate on the door of the top executive office at Promethean Pharma and removing one with Sebastian Senex’s name.
The new CEO and board chairperson smiled and pointed to the nameplate: Daisy Senex.
“It’s a new day at Promethean Pharma,” said Daisy into the reporter’s microphone. She lowered her finger from the nameplate. “From now on this company will be operated with the strictest adherence to corporate integrity and the public good.”
“I don’t get it,” Jim said to no one in particular. “She was supposed to be a ditz.”
“She never was,” Nicole said, her cheeks flushing. “I knew her. You didn’t. Her father brainwashed her into believing she was a ditz. She woke up after the murder of Palomba.”
“I wonder what happened between her and her father in Havana?” Jim asked no one in particular. “Guess we’ll never know.”
The bartender pointed to the cell in his hand. “Hey, Marco, your cab’s outside for O’Hare,” he yelled over the din of bar chatter and TV sound bites.
Marco herded Mondocane into his pet carrier. Jim picked up his partner’s suitcases and walked him to the entrance door with Nicole. Outside the bar Jim handed over Marco’s suitcases to the cab driver, who stuffed them in the trunk. Jim was going to miss Rome’s new superintendent of police. “So, Marco, what have you learned in America?”
“We are all in the same leaky boat called the world. The alteration of seats on the boat does not stop the leaks.” He hugged Jim. “We have to repair the leaks together.”
“I draw the line at cheek kisses,” Jim said, pulling away. “You want to ruin my reputation with Chicago coppers?”
Nicole kissed Marco goodbye on the cheeks.
“I wish I could go with you,” she said, “but my research project is here.”
“Is that what you call this police officer?” Marco asked with a smile. “A research project?”
“Get out,” Jim said, “before I have you arrested.”
“I shall see you in the hereafter in Rome.”
“You got a deal,” Jim said. It wasn’t a linguistic lapse he wanted to correct.
Acknowledgments
In writing this novel I had the good fortune of assembling team members from Girl Friday Productions who launched my first novel, The Mithras Conspiracy (Lido Press: 2019). I thank Sara Spees Addicott, senior editor, for again keeping the unruly machinery of book production chugging along to a timely result. Thanks also to Bethany Davis, production editor and new team member, for making my life easier by coordinating the copyediting and proofreading. Although at opposite ends of the country, I had the pleasure of meeting Sara and Bethany (even if virtually) for the first time via Zoom conference.
And how could I forget to express my gratitude to Scott Calamar, the copyeditor, and Wanda Zimba, the proofreader? They skillfully did the nitty-gritty work of tightening up the nuts and bolts that I had failed to tighten.
Just as he did in my first novel, Paul Barrett, art director, worked his artistic magic on this novel’s cover and interior to make attractively real what I only vaguely visualized. I am also indebted to all the unknown resource partners of Girl Friday Productions who behind the scenes have added their expertise to a publication I could not have achieved on my own. A shout-out also to Victor Salas of the University of Illinois Chicago School of Law library for his research assistance.
Finally, to this author writing in a year of COVID-19 house arrest, I could not have asked for a better companion than Donna, my wife. She not only endured a writer’s travails but made the ultimate sacrifice of listening to the recitation of a husband’s manuscript and providing suggestions. The spirited back-and-forth of those sessions improved earlier drafts and helped us get through a time of coronavirus.
About the Author
M.J. Polelle is a Harvard Law School graduate and an emeritus professor from the University of Illinois Chicago School of Law where he taught constitutional law. A native of Chicago, he was a special assistant state’s attorney of Cook County and a Cook County judicial candidate. He has visited Italy many times, both for professional reasons and for pure pleasure. Polelle is the author of The Mithras Conspiracy (Lido Press: 2019). He now lives in Sarasota, Florida, with Donna, his wife. Visit the author’s website at www.mjpolelle.com.
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