The Vendetta

by Thomas Laird

  Then she excused herself and got the hell out of the Lake Forest estate. She found the Buick and drove herself through his gate and then back to Cicero where she told her husband the bad news. But she never included the stuff about taking on the male porn star with the gigantic schlong for the entertainment and gratification of the Boss of Bosses.

  It would’ve sent Benny Bats through the roof. He would’ve run out all by himself and tried to shoot Calabrese, and Tony C’s hired help would’ve splattered Benedetto all over that Lake Forest lawn. The thought that his own wife would’ve gone down with some boy hooker would’ve thrown Ben over the top. He would’ve bulled his way past his own crew, here in Cicero, and committed suicide by going after the old, wizened prick.

  Now Ben would go back to his old MO. His old way of operating. This time there would be blood and the war would really happen, no matter what peace they’d made with the other capos and Calabrese.

  It was her fault, Carmen thought. Somehow it was on her that the ancient fool had thwarted her perfect plan. All he had to do was take a few slugs out of that fancy glass of bubbly, and the deed would be done.

  She looked at that kid stroking himself and then at Calabrese with his hand clutching his useless crotch and she almost became nauseated. It was all she could do to bolt out of the mansion before she heaved on Tony C’s expensive Persian rugs.

  Yes, Ben would do violence, now. There’d be no more Machiavellian plotting, using his wife as a Judas goat. She was out of what was to come. He’d do things the old-school way, and a lot of people were going to get dead.

  *

  “So it’s not our jurisdiction. I get tired of hearing about boundaries. Chicago, Cicero, Lake Forest…who gives a shit? They asked for our assistance, didn’t they?”

  “Technically, Jimmy, yeah. But we might be on shaky legal ground if we step out of line,” Doc added.

  “Since when has that stopped us short?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Who did Bertelli? There was a woman, the kid told us. So who was she? She drives off in a vehicle all by herself, but the kid couldn’t make the car or the plates. So the woman skips, and we don’t know if she was the shooter who double-tapped Joe Bertelli. Someone else might’ve been in the room. Or the female lit Bertelli up.”

  “Yeah, it’s a mystery.”

  Doc tried to grin, but he couldn’t pull it off.

  “Maybe a woman had a motive.”

  “It wasn’t Bertelli’s wife. That much we know.”

  “Then who was Joey fucking on the side, Doctor?”

  “Good question. Here’s a better one. Who wasn’t fucking Joe Bertelli?”

  “Nah, most of those girlfriends were casual punchboards for him. It had to be someone with a lot more compelling reason than jealousy. This was no crime of passion. If it was, Doc, she would’ve cut him after she shot him. There was no anger in that killing. It was purely business, like most of the shit the Outfit pulls.”

  “So who was the queen of spades, this time?”

  “Maybe we should ask around. Maybe someone knows.”

  “I thought you were through using your clan members.”

  “I thought I was, too, Doc. But we have to break this iceberg up somehow. You got a better idea?”

  “Yeah. I write the great American novel and I leave all these goddam puzzles to you, Jimmy.”

  Gibron looked out the window that viewed Lake Michigan.

  “I hope it warms up soon. I want to use those new binoculars I got from my ex-wife. She thinks I might get busted as a peeping Tom with them.”

  “The girls won’t be out on the beach until late May, earliest. We got a lot of April left.”

  “You ready to go visit your tribe?” Gibron asked.

  *

  Matteo Solano was a distant cousin. He was associated with the Carbone crew, and he was a thief among thieves. He wasn’t known for wet work, but he was made, and so he probably pushed a button on one or two guys to get to where he was today. He ran a few chop shops on the southwest side, out by 111th and Damen and on 123rd and Laflin. He’d been busted before and had done a bit in Joliet, but he had remained at large for the last six years.

  Jimmy had seen him occasionally when Jake, his father, was still alive, and the meets were on holidays. Christmas and Easter, when the extended family got together. Jake never liked attending, but Eleanor insisted they were still blood, and so the Parisis made brief appearances. Jimmy went to high school with Matteo Solano, but he never saw him around the building very often because Matty was always getting suspended. He finally got expelled after he decked an English teacher.

  Doc and Jimmy took a ride to Buffalo Bill’s tap on 90th and Ashland. It was a sports bar, the newest thing, with TVs and bar food and full bar. The TVs had the games on when they were available, and the clientele was mixed. It wasn’t just wiseguys, at Buffalo Bill’s. There were factory workers and professional people like doctors and lawyers. The habitues were diverse.

  Matty sat in a booth at the far end of the room. He smiled when he saw Jimmy, but a frown entered his face when he spied Doc Gibron.

  “This is my partner, Detective Gibron.”

  “I thought you said you were coming alone,” Matteo griped.

  “He sort of goes where I go. That’s how it works.”

  “I knew this was no social call.”

  “It isn’t, Matty. But I do need help.”

  The waitress came for their orders. The policemen asked for Cokes, but Matty asked for an Old Style draught. The brunette waitress pedaled toward the bar and bartender.

  “Why do you come to me, then? I’m no informant.”

  “I understand. But it’s very important, and I was hoping you’d be kind enough to help me out. If there’s something I can do for you, I’m all ears, Matty.”

  The bar had the TVs on, but it was only a bit after noon, and it was a Friday in April, and the Cubs didn’t play until 9:00 tonight, out on the West Coast. Buffalo Bill’s was on the southside, but it was a strictly north side bar when it came to baseball.

  “What do you want?” his cousin asked.

  “You know some of the guys in Joe Bertelli’s crew?” Doc said.

  “Why am I talking to you?” Matteo shot back.

  “He doesn’t respond well to rudeness,” Jimmy warned.

  “I don’t give a fuck how he responds.”

  Doc had his hand on the Italian’s throat before he could block the detective’s death grip. When he began to color a little, Gibron let him loose.

  “Now answer him politely this time,” Parisi offered.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Do you know any of Bertelli’s associates?” Jimmy repeated.

  When his flush left his cheeks, he looked at Parisi and answered.

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Who was Bertelli balling?” Doc inquired.

  “You got paper and pen? The list is endless.”

  The waitress arrived with the drinks.

  “Everything okay?” she asked Solano.

  “Great.”

  She walked away.

  “They know me here,” Matty explained.

  “It’s nice to have friends,” Gibron agreed. “Was there anybody really interesting on that long list of ball-ees?”

  A quick look of recognition crossed Solano’s face.

  “What’s in it for me, again?” he asked Jimmy.

  “You have one of your so-called mechanics coming up for probation very soon, I hear. We could put a word in to his probation officer, but I can’t guarantee anything. But it wouldn’t hurt his chances…all we need is her name. Anything comes of it, I’ll do my best for your guy when his case comes up.”

  “You’re referring to Frankie Donadio, I assume,” Solano said.

  “The very one.”

  “And no one ever knows you heard anything from me.”

  “This is confidential, yeah,” Parisi told him.

  Doc took a drink from his
glass of Coke. Matty Solano took a hit on his schooner of Old Style. Parisi was watching his cousin intently.

  “One of the worst kept secrets in the Outfit is that Joe Bertelli was porking Benny Bats’ old lady, Carmen. He’s been shtupping her for a couple years, I heard. It’s a rumor, but I heard it more than once from a few reliable guys. The rest of his harem was mostly Vegas show girls and pros from around town. I guess he was doing a few married broads, but they were mostly one-time shots. Rossi’s old lady is a hot number. A lot of guys would like to put it to her, Jimmy. You ever seen her?”

  Parisi nodded.

  “If this works out, I’ll make the call to your guy’s P.O.”

  “That broad is dangerous, Jimmy. She seems a little too fast to be a housewife. But that’s what I heard about her and the dearly departed capo.”

  Parisi got up, and so did his partner. They left Matty Solano with the dregs of his beer, and they walked out of Buffalo Bill’s.

  *

  They brought her downtown, but she didn’t lawyer-up. Parisi explained to Carmen that she could call an attorney, but she smiled and waved the idea off.

  “You want to call your husband to come down here?” Gibron offered.

  Her face quickly darkened.

  “Can we just get on with this, gentlemen?”

  Her smile was forced. Her face looked tight, like a grimace.

  “Where were you on this evening?” Parisi asked.

  He slipped the paper across to her.

  “I’m not sure. I was probably home. Why?”

  “Did you know Joe Bertelli?” Doc asked her.

  “You know the answer to that,” she replied.

  Her color had softened back to its light tan hue.

  “I knew who he was, but I never met him,” she added.

  “Is there anyone who can vouch for your presence on that night I showed you?” Jimmy countered.

  “I would think my husband could.”

  “Anyone else?” Parisi continued.

  “What’s going on, here? Why’re you asking me all this?”

  She was a beautiful woman, Jimmy observed. Ripe. Mature. Extraordinarily attractive. Joe Bertelli might have risked his life to be with her.

  “Did you have a personal relationship with Joe Bertelli?” Parisi went on.

  “Do I look suicidal to you?” she laughed.

  “We heard you might have known him better than you’ve told us,” Gibron suggested.

  “That’s idiotic. I love my husband.”

  “The guy who works the desk at the motel where Joe caught it said he was there with a woman. He said no one else was in the motel that evening and night. Just Joe Bertelli and an unknown woman,” Parisi told her.

  “I’m not that person. I think I might want to call an attorney, now.”

  “We’re not accusing you of anything, Mrs. Rossi,” Jimmy explained. “But if you want to make the call, we’ll fix you up.”

  “If you’re not accusing me, then why am I here?”

  “You know how it works. You’re the wife of Benny Bats. You probably know more about how cops work than we both do. You’re the wife of Benedetto Rossi. I’m sure he’s got multiple attorneys in his pocket,” Jimmy smiled.

  “But you think I killed Joe Bertelli.”

  “We’re trying to establish if you were closer to him than you suggest,” Jimmy grinned again.

  “I have never cheated on my husband. Never. Not once.”

  “You want to explain what you were doing at Anthony Calabrese’s home in Lake Forest, a few nights ago? The local coppers made your plates when you took off from his humble abode. Anything you’d like to say?” Gibron shot at Carmen.

  “I think I’ll make that call, now.”

  “Sure. But you’d be wasting that expensive legal acumen for nothing. We’re not charging you, and we’re about done,” Jimmy told her.

  “Then I can leave?” she asked.

  “One more question,” Parisi said.

  “What’s the question?” she demanded.

  “Why didn’t you bring the old man down here with you, Carmen? Why isn’t Benny Bats here to support his better half?” Jimmy Parisi wanted to know.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Chris and Charlie Balboa were the new replacements for Vince Cabretta and Manny Fortunato. They’d made their bones for Ben Rossi’s crew, and they would be made men shortly.

  “Got a task for you two,” Rossi told them.

  They were inside Benny Bats’ sound-proofed office, and the twin American-born Sicilian-ancestry killers were eager for anything that would move them up in Rossi’s outfit.

  “Petey Carbone’s lived too long. I want you to help him get where he needs to be. And that goes for his two lieutenants, the guys who work as his bodyguards. I think their time has come, too.”

  The twins were six feet tall, on the screws. They both weighed in at 175 pounds, both fought Golden Gloves at the CYO, the Catholic Youth Organization, and both enjoyed hurting people—but only if they got the order from their capo. Neither of them was reckless, and their maturity was what Ben Rossi admired in them. You could count on them to do what they were told without over-reacting or taking stupid chances on getting caught. Neither had ever been arrested, so it reflected their cleverness. They didn’t have book educations, but they both displayed an unusual level of street smarts, especially since they were only twenty-two years old.

  They were good-looking kids, as well. The babes always noticed when they entered a room. And their green eyes didn’t hold them back from women, either.

  On every count these two young men were winners. Rossi thought they might surpass Cabretta and Fortunato as his most favored associates.

  “When?” Charlie asked.

  They weren’t big on superfluous conversation.

  “Tonight,” Rossi told them as they sat opposite his desk.

  “Where?” Chris queried.

  “They like to hang at Sal’s Tap on 63rd and Halsted. Carbone owns the place. He runs under-aged whores out of the place. Drugs, too, I hear. It’s just a small saloon, but Carbone is a simple fuck, himself. He doesn’t go for the Old Town or Rush Street shit, like Calabrese. Bertelli was a downtowner, too, the cocksucker.

  “This ought to be easy. You come right through the front door—there might be someone at the entry, but you can pop him and then go in and get Carbone and his two lieutenants, Salvatore and DeBrizzo. Get all three of them and anybody else who’s tired of breathing. Try not to pop women or children, you know, civilians. The cops don’t get hardons when any of us go down, but those innocent bystanders cause too much trouble. You know?”

  The twins nodded. Ben thought the nods were simultaneous, and it spooked him a little.

  “You think you can handle this?” Benny Bats demanded.

  “It’s already done,” Chris Balboa told the capo.

  The identical young men stood up and left together, in synch. Ben Rossi was spooked a bit again.

  *

  Sal’s Tap on 63rd and Halsted was in a very dicey neighborhood, the Balboas thought when they pulled up to the curb outside at around eleven that night. There weren’t many cars parked out front, but there were a few, and Carbone’s gaudy black Caddie was out there, too. The twins thought the two Pontiacs belonged to Salvatore and DeBrizzo, the lieutenants. There couldn’t be too many other patrons in the joint. It was late and the working slobs in this hood all had jobs in the morning. It was the last day of April, the 30th, and it was warm, almost balmy outside.

  The twins had a squad car they’d bought at an auction. They’d re-painted it, but it still looked like the genuine article. Chris figured no one would fuck with them if they were in a copper ride. The twirling lights on top were still functional, and the words “to protect and serve” were still visible on the driver’s side of the car.

  The Balboas were wearing uniforms of Chicago’s Finest, as well. Badges and everything. The full attire, with caps.

  But the stun
grenade came from Army surplus. Chris had it in his left hand.

  When they got out of the squad, they saw a lone man in front. The figure moved toward them slowly, but Charlie shot him twice in the head, and the lookout went backward and down. Chris looked down at him, but there were two black holes in his forehead, but no blood, as yet.

  Charlie opened the door to the tap, and Chris tossed the stun grenade inside. The bang was fierce and loud, even though Charlie had slammed the entry shut in front of them. Then the twins rushed inside. The flash had apparently blinded everyone inside, and the sound of the stun grenade had deafened them, as well, because two or three of the patrons had their hands against their ears.

  They saw Carbone in the back. Salvatore and DeBrizzo were blinking hard, but they sensed the two new arrivals and they were pulling their weapons out of their waistbands. Chris shot DeBrizzo three times and Charlie popped Salvatore twice. Both men fell on their backs, and it looked like Carbone was stunned but still standing.

  Then the capo wheeled about and made a run for the back door. Charlie spied the bartender reaching for something behind his slab, and Charlie hit the barman twice with two quick rounds from his .357. The man crashed into a row of booze bottles behind him, and glass shattered as the barkeep fell behind the bar.

  Chris missed his first shot at the retreating Carbone, and the capo kicked open the rear door. The twins pursued, and they bolted right, out of the exit. They each took a knee and carefully aimed at the sprinting Petey Carbone. The Balboas didn’t miss, this time, and Carbone was flung face first on the concrete of the alley.

  Charlie walked up to the prone man and shot him twice more in the back of the head. The twins sheathed their weapons and walked out of the alley to the street where they were parked. They got in the squad, took off their copper hats, and then drove away from the curb.

  They took the cop ride to their garage on 82nd and Damen. They parked it inside and pulled down the door. When they were inside, they got their civilian clothes out of the trunk of the squad, and they put the police clothes back in the trunk.