by Thomas Laird
This wasn’t a real Italian eatery. ‘Johnny’ was really a Polack—his name was Bratkowski. But the chef was an Eye-tie, and the food was world-classed.
When they polished off the filets, she smiled over to him.
“Carmen ever do you like that?”
“Constantly,” he shot back with a malevolent grin.
“I bet she couldn’t do my magic tricks.”
“No, she’s not exactly a sword-swallower, but she’s very good.”
“As good as I am?”
“Dead heat,” he told her.
“I don’t believe it. And anyway, it’s not likely she’ll ever be the same.”
He didn’t answer because he had no answer.
“You can back out of this any time you like.”
The tears welled up in Maureen’s eyes, and her pale complexion betrayed her mood.
“I love you, Ben. You shouldn’t hurt me like you do.”
“Look, let’s just leave things the way they are. I’m not going to lie to you, Maureen. We got an agreement. You live the life of a fucking princess, and I’m happy to accommodate you, but you know my situation, and you gotta stop with this shit.
“You know I love you, but you knew up front what the story is. You want to upset the fuckin’ apple cart, like I said, just let me know.”
A lone droplet cascaded down Maureen’s left cheek.
*
The cabin in Sawyer, Michigan was not very spacious, but there were three adequate-sized bedrooms. Morgan slept with Marilyn, and Elizabeth had her own room. The cabin was furnished, and Mark bought the old couples’ stuff so the place wouldn’t look desolate and empty. There were queen-sized beds in each of the rooms and there were dressers for his sister-in-law and the girls. There was a TV in the living room with a couple of sectional couches that were ageing rapidly, but there were no holes or slices in them. The kitchen was tiny, but there was a fair-sized dining room that met their needs.
Mark had set the girls up in a Catholic grade school in Sawyer because he thought the public elementary might be a little dicey because it was on the poorer side of town.
The fridge was stocked, and Marilyn commandeered the kitchen and she cleaned the place thoroughly in the week they were here. She wanted to seek employment, but Mark said she should be around for the kids because he’d be leaving, shortly.
The girls were in bed on this Thursday evening. The temperature was dropping outside and the wind was howling directly off Lake Michigan, out of the north.
“Where are you going?” she asked Mark.
She’d spent more time with her appearance, he thought, since they’d moved in with him.
Her hair was groomed, and she wore a touch of makeup. Her eyes seemed clearer, and her cheeks showed more natural color than they had back in Cicero.
He wondered if he were becoming attracted to David’s wife, but he dismissed the notion as improbable.
“We have one rule. When I leave you’re not going to know my destination. It’s really for your own safety. If you don’t know, you’ve got nothing to tell.”
“Tell who?” she asked. Her glow darkened, suddenly.
“Don’t worry about it. Nobody knows about this place. I never told David about it. I never told anyone. Don’t be afraid. I’ll be around most of the time.”
“Why’ve you been so good to us?” she queried.
He looked baffled by the question, at first. “Because you’re my family. What else?”
“I read about that gangster. The one they took out of the Rossi house. Did you do that?”
“Don’t ask. Then you’ve got nothing to tell.”
“I’m sorry, Mark. I shouldn’t be asking you about your personal business.”
“You need to get the kids settled here. It’s a nice little town. They’ll make new friends. And it’s nothing like Cicero. They’ll learn to love it up here. It’s a resort area. They can swim in the lake. They can learn to ski up in the Upper Peninsula, some day.”
“I don’t want to lose you, too.”
He looked at the color rise again in her cheeks.
“You’ll never lose me, Marilyn. I’m not going away. I promise. I’ll be around. Trust me.”
He reached across the dining room table and clasped her warm right hand, and she returned the grip.
PART TWO
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Salvatore Giancarlo and Matteo Slacchi walked through O’Hare and then hailed a cab at the curb outside. They were not held up after getting off the jet. Their passports were checked perfunctorily, and then they breezed right on out. Security was not a problem for these two Sicilians.
They were not armed. They’d pick up the weapons from Bertelli’s people. The drop was to be made at a bar on the far southwest side. The hit was going to happen at The Green Room, Rossi’s home away from home. If the two gunmen were fortunate, it’d be in and out. Ten grand a piece for five seconds work. They would bust into the front door of the restaurant, fire several rounds into Ben Rossi’s face, and add a few bullets to his remaining bulldog, Manny Fortunato.
Rossi had disbanded his ‘army,’ Bertelli’s man told them, back in Sicily, so this was a cakewalk. Easy money. What Bertelli’s rep didn’t tell Giancarlo and Slacchi was that neither man would ever return to the island and neither would ever spend a penny of their bounty.
*
They drove up in a stolen Mercury. It wasn’t too ostentatious, for obvious reasons. The plates were stolen, also, and it was already dark. They pulled up to the curb. There were plenty of parking places because it was a slow Monday night. When Salvatore peered through the window at the front of The Green Room, he saw perhaps eight or nine patrons scattered singly and in pairs throughout the Outfit hangout. He was told Rossi would be sitting near the back. Benny Bats, they were told, was a sly prick. He sat with his back against the rear wall, so they would have to swoop in and begin shooting almost immediately. Rossi would react quickly to two new faces.
Neither Giancarlo nor Slacchi was outstanding in height or girth. They were mid-sized assassins who could usually walk into a place unnoticed. No one would think they were killers, but they were both swarthy with the typical looks of someone straight off the island. But there were a lot of punks who fit their exact profiles running in and out of The Green Door.
They had the .45 automatics in the waistbands at the smalls of their backs, and they went for the pieces as soon as they got inside the front door. They strode quickly and resolutely toward the rear of the restaurant.
But they didn’t make it halfway to Ben Rossi before they both heard the slide action of the shotgun behind them, and before they could twirl about in the direction of the sound, the boom of the pump shattered the quiet of The Green Room.
The first blast tore off the top of Salvatore Giancarlo’s head, and the round blew him backwards over an unoccupied table. Blood splashed on the red and white checkerboard tablecloth as his body was flung onto and over the table, and before Salvatore’s body hit the carpeting, another boom exploded at Slacchi, but this time it was a gut shot that blew the Sicilian’s innards out of his back as he was lifted into the air and thrust onto the aisle between the tables.
Manny Fortunato came toward the two destroyed bodies, and he nudged each of their heads with the toe of his shoe. They were indeed dead. He picked up the .45s and hurried back to his capo, who was now squatting behind his overturned table.
“You all right, Ben?” Fortunato demanded.
Rossi stood up. “Do I look all right? I got a racing stripe in my shorts.” Rossi attempted a lame smile.
“We’re lucky they sent these mamalukes, Boss. I told you you shouldn’t let those soldiers go. We’re very fucking lucky. We should call them back to your house.”
Manny righted the upturned table.
“I suppose we should call the fuckin’ cops,” Fortunato offered.
“Self-defense, no?”
“I should dump them in some goddam slough in the fo
rest preserves, Ben.”
“Too many witnesses, even though we own them all.”
The other few customers were still lying flat on the floor. The owner, in name only, was out cold in front of the bar, just a few feet from Fortunato and Rossi. Ben walked over and threw a glass of ice water in Charley Nitti’s, the ‘proprietor’ of The Green Door’s, face.
“You made a fucking mess, Manny. It’s lucky you’re licensed to use that cannon.”
“You paid enough money for the license, Boss.”
“Call the cops. Let’s get this shit over with.”
“You feeling all right, Ben? I could wait a while.”
“Hell, no. They’ll want to know why we delayed. Get them down here.”
Manny walked over to the phone behind the bar. He almost slipped on the blood pooling around Slacchi, the assassin he’d eviscerated.
*
Of all the Homicides he could draw, it had to be this prick, Parisi. And the first thing the cop did was haul the two of them down to the Headquarters in the Loop. It was the first move Parisi made after taking his notes in that cheap shit kid’s notebook he carried with him, anyway. Ben and Fortunato sat at the capo’s table in the back until all the police bullshit was finished.
Ben rather liked the looks of the female detective that was with Parisi. He wondered where the big man, his regular partner, was. But she was an improvement on that tall bastard.
Then they drove him and Manny out by the lake, and finally they were escorted into what they called an interview room. There were no bright lights and telephone books to use as clubs, like in the thirties’ movies with Bogart or Cagney. It was kind of disappointing for Rossi. He was a big-time gangster movie fan. If it wasn’t Cagney or Bogart or Alan Ladd, he was watching Casablanca one more time.
Manny and Rossi sat across the table from the dago detective and the babe whose ID read Dani Hawke. So she must be an Indian princess, Ben figured. But her face read strictly business. He thought of the word ‘severe’ when he stared over at her. But the little bitch didn’t break eye contact with him, and Rossi was impressed.
“Who were the two gunners?” Parisi asked.
“How the hell should I know?” Rossi shot back.
Manny put on his best bored mug shot.
“This is going to take a very long time, it looks like,” Parisi smiled.
“Do I get to call my attorney?”
Manny remained mute.
“Only if you think you need him,” the cop countered.
“I think I’ll let my mouthpiece decide whether I need him or not.”
It took thirty minutes for the lawyer to show up. Fortunately, he lived close by, down on Michigan Avenue in some wealthy condo in a high rise.
It was someone new, Parisi observed. This was a shyster named Michael Roth.
He didn’t speak, however. He let Rossi and Parisi do the interview.
“This is sheer self-defense, Parisi. You know it and I know it, so what the fuck.”
“You know how it works, capo. We do the dance. I ask the questions, and when I’m through, you scurry back into the night.”
“You ever take that badge and gun off?”
“I’m required to have them with me all the time, Benny Bats.”
Now the lawyer spoke up. “If you’re not going to charge him, Detective Parisi, he needs to walk, along with Mr. Fortunato.”
“It’s just that he used a pump shotgun. Does he have the paperwork required?”
“Yes, he does.”
“Can you produce it, Counselor?”
“Yes, I have it here.” Roth opened his briefcase and took the papers out.
“You’re well-prepared. Do this often?” Parisi smiled.
The cop read over the documents.
“Believe it or not,” he told his female partner, “it looks legal.”
“Because it is,” Rossi shot back at him.
The conversation took about another forty-five minutes to conclude. Rossi said very little, and Roth sped the process up in a very polite manner. Jimmy Parisi cut them loose, finally.
*
The room was inhabited by the two detectives, now.
“It’s dinner time, again,” he told Hawke.
“It’s midnight,” she protested.
“Oh yeah. Shit, this tour went fast. You want to get something to eat anyway?”
She surprised Parisi by accepting the offer.“But no pizza. Too much pasta, this week.”
“It’s the Italian in me.”
“I don’t need all the calories.”
*
They picked a fancy burger joint in Berwyn that was open until four. It was actually a bar and grill, but the food was good, and Jimmy had been here before.
No checkerboard table cloths. Just shiny hard surfaces that gleamed with a deep mahogany brown. When he saw the prices on the menu, he blanched a little. $5.95 for the cheapest hamburger.
“I’m buying, tonight,” Dani announced.
“That’s good. I don’t like washing dishes.”
They ordered a pitcher of Old Style because they were off duty. She suggested the adult libation, for a change.
“Are you warming up toward me?” he cracked.
“Yeah. You’re my trusted partner.”
He didn’t take the bait, and he remained silent for a moment.
“Who gave the order?” Dani put out across the gleaming dark wood table. The name of the eatery was Destiny’s. The name wasn’t referring to fate—it was the owner’s eldest daughter’s name, Jimmy knew. The restaurant was located only a few blocks from HQ, and that was one of the reasons they were there. There were only a few other night owls in Destiny’s, and the jukebox was playing Miles Davis. The rock ‘n roll crowd wouldn’t be in until Friday night.
“I would wager it was one of Rossi’s friendly competitors, one of the other three capos, but you can bet that Calabese gave the original order. Benny Bats is not popular with his co-workers. The man’s in heat. He wants to move up in the Outfit, and he doesn’t prefer to wait until natural causes o’erwhelm his Big Boss, Tony C.”
The pitcher arrived and the burgers showed up only five minutes after the brew. They partook of the beer and the sandwiches, and when they’d inhaled most of their meals, Jimmy looked over at this pretty, naturally attractive woman. He knew he’d better watch what he said. It all had to be on her professional level. He couldn’t tell her she was very desirable because he knew what the outcome would be, and it wouldn’t be positive. She’d made herself very clear.
“I heard your wife died of cancer.”
“Yes. She did. It’s been a while.”
“You never thought of remarrying?”
“Sure. My kids need a mother. As you can see, I’m improperly equipped.”
She smiled. She finally goddam smiled.
“Hell, I always thought you had teeth.”
“I’m too young and stubborn for you, Jimmy.”
“So you think I look like your grandpa?”
She took another slug out of her beer stein made of glass.
“You know it wouldn’t work out, don’t you?”
“Because I’m pushing forty and you’re assaulting thirty?”
She smiled again. He wished she’d keep doing it until dawn.
“You don’t look forty. But you don’t look much younger than that. The toll has been taken,” she said with a serious face, now.
“So I’ve got baggage, no?”
“Who the hell doesn’t?” she retorted.
“What’s the load you’re carting around?”
She took another gulp of the brew. He saw that the pitcher was already drained, but he didn’t feel squirrely or anywhere near stupid with drink.
“I was engaged when I was eighteen. Then he took off, and you know how the rest of the tale goes. Broken-hearted, and not even twenty. Sad, sad stuff.”She smiled again.
“I know I can’t talk you into anything. Don’t worry. I won’t bust a
ny moves at you.”
“You’re a couple of decades behind in that talk, you know.”
“Yeah, I think I lost sight of the mainstream about fifteen years ago.”
“About the time she passed?”
“No, it wasn’t quite that long. I’m just a relic. I tend to hold onto the past even when it cut me loose, long ago.”
“We all have our sob stories, Jimmy.”
“I guess…Are you going to be able to drive home tonight?”
“To be honest, I don’t know how sturdy my legs are, about now.”
“I’ll drive you home. And I can come get you tomorrow afternoon to get to work. My mother’s got the kids. She’s staying overnight. She knows we work a lot of overtime.”
“Sounds good to me.”
She paid the tab, as promised, and they walked out into the cold of a late October night. There were flurries in the forecast, and Jimmy saw the frost in both their breaths as they walked to the Crown Vic police ride.
They sat outside her apartment building on north Clark Street. She lived among the very with-it crew, he knew. All the kids wanted to live in this ‘progressive’ neighborhood. If Jimmy were in his twenties again, he might’ve had designs on living in an apartment like Dani’s. He’d never actually seen her place, but he knew the kinds of flats that young people rented around here.
He pulled up to the curb outside her three-flat building.
“You want to come in?” she suddenly posed to him.
He had to blink.“You…sure?”
“Of course I’m sure or I wouldn’t have asked.”
“I’m a little slow on the trigger, lately, Dani. Out of practice. Rust builds up, no?”
“C’mon in.”
She got out of the passenger’s side, and he came around the Ford and caught her when she wobbled slightly.
“No sea legs?”
“I think I’m just tired, but I’m all right.”
She unlocked the entry, and he let go of her. She seemed to regain her balance on the way up the three flights of stairs. Then she unlocked her front entry.
As soon as she got inside, she turned to him and laid a firm kiss on his lips. It contained just the slightest suggestion of an exploratory tongue.
