“Now!” I said.
I grabbed her hand and we took off like rabbits, bobbing, weaving, giggling as the wave of humanity closed in around and behind us. We made maybe a hundred yards before the crowd slowed us to a crawl, then we had to shuffle forward for the next three minutes. I caught one glimpse of our man in the mass. After that, he was gone.
We made a quick turn at the entrance and cut back sharp to the pier’s edge, where a growing throng of university kids were gathering along the rail to smoke. Claudia was laughing the whole time. I tried to smile to reassure her, but I had begun to have serious doubts that the man was a photographer. We hid in the crowd facing out until I saw the tail come barreling out the front doors, panting heavily through clenched teeth. I got my first good look at him then, and he sure as hell wasn’t Alan Funt.
Nothing was funny any longer.
That did it for me. I’d been getting the feeling I was being followed practically since I hit town. And I had my fill of it.
Speaking low in Italian, I said, “Claudia, listen to me. That guy is no photographer. I’m going to draw him out and find out just what the hell he wants. I need you to stay here with these kids and keep out of sight.”
Her face drew tight. “No, Joe, don’t—”
I was already off, marching out into the open, heading toward the shadowy workspaces beneath the freighters where I could brace the guy out of sight now that the workday had ended. He was still near the front entrance, head spinning back and forth amid the teeming crowd. Finally, he picked me and gave chase. I quick-hoofed it toward the ships, hopped the train tracks, and ducked between two of the many rows of huge crates stacked along water’s edge. Flattening up against the wood, I lay in wait, hands at the ready.
I could hear him closing in, coat rustling as he scurried over.
I readied myself to pounce.
There was a sudden scuffle of feet then, followed by a pronounced “Ooof.”
Taken aback, I leaned out beyond the edge of the crates, saw a blur in motion.
It was the man—tumbling sidelong off the pier—arms flailing, a latent cry trailing behind him as he hit the lake headfirst and disappeared below an eruption of water. Behind me, I heard scampering feet, spun, caught a flash of a brown suit as it vanished in the crate stacks. I broke into fast pursuit through the maze of boxes.
The man in the water came up to the surface then, dazed, struggling, shouting for help. The shrill tweet of a police whistle rose in the air a moment later. Emerging from the crate stacks, I saw the man in brown darting into an open workbay in the pier, then spied a life preserver on the wall of the foreman’s shack in front of me. The man in the water cried again for help. He didn’t sound too much like a tough guy now.
I clenched my fists, slowed to a stop. “Damnit!” I shouted aloud over the dilemma. Then I grabbed the life ring off its mount, walked back to pier’s edge, and flung it down at the waterlogged tail, trying my best to bounce it off his head.
People were rushing in toward the sound of the commotion, the police whistle nearing. I took a last look at the guy as he clung to his float, wondering just who the hell he was, then darted between the crates and out of sight as people began to arrive on scene.
Claudia was standing along the rail where I’d left her.
“What’s going on, Joe?” she queried.
“I have no idea whatsoever,” I said tersely, “but we should leave right now.”
We struggled upstream against the hundreds moving the other way toward the “jumper” in the water.
Claudia’s eyes were locked wide. Her connection to Carpaccio came to me suddenly—his attentions on her the other night, his disappearing into her dressing room. I still wasn’t sure the tail was his guy, but Claudia’s reaction told me there was more at play than I knew. And now there was another party involved as well, one motivated enough to shove a man into the lake.
“Amore,” I said, “did you happen to recog—”
Her eyes were distant. “I . . . I have to go, Joe,” she blurted out. “Now.”
She broke away, hustled across the old trolley line, hailed an idling cab. I went after her, took hold of her shoulders. “Claudia . . . baby . . . don’t go!”
She shook her head, struggling in my arms. “No, Joe, let me go. I’m sorry. Don’t get mixed up with me. Mi dispiace. . . . Let me go!” she pleaded.
I felt my fingers slacken. Claudia wrenched free and slipped into the taxi. A moment later it was off. She glanced back as the car merged into the evening traffic, a navy glove to her mouth. Then she was gone.
I just stood there in numb shock, watching her go, yammering throngs rushing past me in the other direction to see what the big deal on the pier was all about, all of us utterly confused by everything that was going down.
35
They were pulling the half-drowned man out of the water when I left. That was the last I saw of him. It was also the last I saw of Claudia that day, dashing my faint, foolish hope that she might have decided to meet me back at the car. But other than the deserted fountain, the only thing waiting for me was a three-dollar parking ticket for violating a rush-hour traffic zone. Figured.
I leaned across the roof, ran my fingers through my hair, brooding as the encroaching grayness of the evening settled in. Things were not so jake in Miss Cucciabella’s world. Mine either.
I checked my watch. It was nearly six; the day had gotten away a little. Then I remembered that Florence Scala’s meeting was at seven at Our Lady of Pompeii.
“Shit.”
It was time to scratch gravel. I jumped in the Nash and pointed her west, putting the afternoon’s disturbing developments behind me for the moment. I had plenty of other things at home that needed taking care of anyway.
•
There was hell to pay when I walked in. Fabrizio was bent that he had missed Frank’s visit. Jimmy was pissed about the deal with his kid and the social club. Francesca said that before Frank left, he had done no small amount of grumbling about me ducking out on him again. And my mother wanted to know what I’d done “to offend that nice girl so badly that she didn’t come back.”
Fortunately, Sinatra had a plan to fix most of it. Everyone was ordered to meet at Slicker Sam’s out in Melrose Park at eight for a feast. It worked on several fronts: Jimmy and I could talk there over wine, Fab could meet Frank, and I could put in some face time to keep Ol’ Blue Eyes quiet. But it didn’t put me—or my mother—any closer to Claudia. In any event, I said I was going to be late.
That brought on a chorus of protests from all quarters.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said, holding a stop sign up against the onslaught. “I’m going to Florence Scala’s meeting tonight. Surely you all want to join me to help fight for our neighborhood.”
“Our neighborhood?” razzed Fab. “Where the hell were you the last two years while this was going down? I don’t remember seeing you at any sit-ins.”
Jimmy chipped in with, “Joe, we went to a lot of those meetings—what did we get? City bulldozers on our front lawns. It’s over. Forget about it. Nobody beats the Machine.”
Even Francesca went along silently, glum resignation on her face.
I turned toward my mother. She threw up her palms. “What can you do, Giuseppino? We’ve been fighting, but Daley is too strong.”
“Listen,” I countered, jabbing out with my finger. “Don’t tell me we have to take this lying down. I’m sorry I wasn’t here before, but I’m here now, and I’ll do whatever I can to stop them from destroying our community.”
Jimmy threw his hands up, muttering, “You don’t understand, Joe.”
“Maybe I don’t, but there will be no defeatism in this family while I’m around. Papà would never have stood for it—and neither will I.”
“Twenty years gone and now you’re just gonna snap
your fingers and fix everything? Just like that?” Fabrizio retorted sharply.
I looked at my brother, fully aware that he was referring to more than Florence Scala’s campaign. “No, Fab, we can’t fix anything overnight. It’s gonna take hard work, maybe years of it. But if we all pull together, we just might make it.”
Fabrizio looked on coldly, arms crossed. The small reflexive smile he cracked a second later threw me.
“Okay, Joe,” he said, motioning back and forth between the two of us, “let’s you and me go to the meeting, huh? Then we’ll meet everyone else out in Melrose. Va bene?”
I scrutinized his face, not sure if he was playing it straight or pulling my leg. “You serious?”
His look said he was. He wasn’t given much to humor anyway. “On the level, Joe. She’s a gutsy lady, Florence, and she’s done a lot for this neighborhood. If she’s still in there swingin’, I’ll hear her out one more time. They’ve taken enough from us already.”
“All right, brother. That’s what I wanted to hear.” I walked over to him, offered my hand. “Grazie.”
He squeezed my hand surprisingly hard. He was thawing; I could feel it.
Before I knew what I was doing, I had grabbed him, pulling him close to me. He stiffened up, unprepared for my act of tenderness, still struggling with his emotions. Finally I felt him relent a little, start to hug me back. Over my shoulder, I saw my mother beaming at us.
It’s a start, I thought as I held him tighter than I had since he was a kid, and then tighter still.
36
The old Lady of Pompeii looked pretty much the same as Fabrizio and I approached through the park, leaves crunching beneath our feet as we crossed the darkened lawn. I’d spent a lot of time in that church growing up, and it felt good to be headed toward it, my own estrangement from the teachings notwithstanding.
I didn’t recognize the priest who greeted us at the door. He smiled at my brother though and shook my hand warmly when Fab introduced us. Florence greeted us inside, said she was pleased to see us both. Fab and I went around the room briefly as I remade some old acquaintances and established some new ones.
Florence gave it to us straight from the get-go: The City, having won in court, was going to put its thumb in the collective eye of those who had tried to stand up to it. The Hull House battle was largely lost, as was the fight to protect the homes and businesses on Harrison-Halsted. Now the City was coming for the homes near the Congress Expressway to expand the medical complex around Pres-St. Luke’s Hospital. Whole residential blocks were going to be gouged out if the citizens couldn’t find a way to stop the Machine.
Given enough time, Daley might level the whole neighborhood and sow the furrows with salt. That was the Chicago Way, all right, but it wasn’t much fun being on the wrong side of it.
The meeting broke up about eight. Fab and I hung around awhile, chatting with Florence and a small crowd of others. I was impressed with the way my brother spoke, his passionate and articulate encomium about what the neighborhood meant to him resonating deeply within me. I felt very proud of him just then, realized what a fine man he’d grown into.
Florence made us both commit to knocking on doors to rally the troops the next couple of days. It was going to be an uphill fight, but I’d been in a few of those before. Thanking her for her dedication and courage, Fabrizio and I finally dashed out about 8:15. As we parted, I invited her to dinner to meet Frank, but Florence demurred, saying she had far too much to do at home to go “cavorting about with that libertine Sinatra.”
Jilly was waiting outside the church in the limo per Frank’s orders. Rush hour was over, but it still took twenty-some minutes to get out to Melrose Park.
Things were already in high gear when Fab and I got to Slicker Sam’s. The joint was bursting like overstuffed manicotti, waitresses struggling through the crowd, platters of baked clams and mostaccioli held aloft above the fray on sturdy, upraised arms. Bartenders were taking shouted orders behind the smoke-shrouded bar, ice clinking into glasses, Chianti corks and beer bottle tops flying through the air as girls hustled the highballs and vino to the thirsty mob. Above it all, a terrific Dick Contino solo was jumping right out of the jukebox, the old accordion maestro layin’ it on but good. It was actually fairly restrained for one of Frank’s affairs, but it was still the biggest Monday night they were ever going to have at Slicker Sam’s.
Hours later, as the party slowly ebbed, I sat with my brother Jimmy at the end of a long table, the waiters scraping up the last of the crumbs from the cubic ton of antipasto, salad, clams, eggplant parmesan, garlic bread, grated cheese, and tiramisu the customers had scarfed down. Cigarettes burned in piles of ash in green cut-glass ashtrays around us, a forty-five selection by the guest of honor now playing in the bar, couples moving in starstruck rhythm around him as he danced with Francesca.
Jimmy looked at me, grinning in disbelief at the smoldering ruins of the festa. “This how it always is with him?”
I shook my head. “Not always. There are some dark times, brother. Very dark.”
“And tell me about Cuba again—how you two came to be buddies? I’m still a little fuzzy on that.”
I chewed on his words, wearing a happy face while I struggled with the turmoil within. He and Fab had to know the full truth about my past. Nobody else did, but they had to, especially with Carpaccio loose in the neighborhood. “It’ll take some explaining. . . . There was some trouble. . . .”
His brows veed down, questioning eyes narrowing beneath them. “Yeah . . . ?”
A waiter came by, changed out the ashtrays, asked if we wanted a coffee. I shook him off.
“Tell you what, Jim, I’ll bring you and Fab up to speed soon—just us though, okay?”
He nodded.
“Let’s get back to last night. Did Johnny have anything to say to you about it?”
“Glad you brought it up. I think he came clean. Him and Tommy—the other kid—they’re pretty close, okay? Culo’camicia, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Tommy’s uncle is in that crew. He got the kid started doing some odd jobs for them, cleaning the place up, making food runs for the guys, stuff like that.”
“That’s how it starts.”
He waved a hand. “Don’t you worry, Joe. I put an end to that. Johnny’s not leavin’ the house till summer—and then only if he has a job. A real job. I know exactly how much trouble those guys get into. I grew up in the neighborhood, too, you know.”
I reached over, clasped his hand, looked into his eyes. “I’m glad you do. Don’t ever let your boy get mixed up with them. They’re the worst people you could ever imagine—don’t be fooled by that veneer of friendliness.”
He regarded me intensely a long moment. “So tell me something then, big brother.”
I’d sensed it coming. “Go ahead.”
“How come Johnny says he saw you go in there last night after you sent him home?”
I flicked my Zippo, bent slightly forward over the flame, drew in a drag from the fresh cig. Looking up at the ceiling, I blew a long plume of smoke out, turned back toward my brother. “He thought I could help him with something.”
“Why would he think that?”
“Because there was a time I might have. A long time ago, Jimmy. And never again. Do you understand me?”
He didn’t say anything, just eyed me uncertainly.
Fabrizio came over to say goodnight. He looked as happy as I’d ever seen him. An extra shot of espresso tomorrow morning was a small price to pay for the night his family had enjoyed.
As he walked out, I glanced over at my sister dancing away beneath the hanging wine bottles. Her shy smile belied the excitement I knew she felt, her dark eyes reflecting the sparkle from the red and green lights above her. Maybe she was a little dazed that she was dancing with Frank Sinatra, but her gaze seemed to be fixed
on me.
She truly was a beautiful girl. But seeing her there in that fuzzy light brought another sloe-eyed beauty to mind, one I’d last seen speeding away from Navy Pier several hours earlier.
Over in the far corner of the room, two rough and tumblers were conferring, their saturnine features obscured in the dusky light. I’d been concerned about them at first until I saw Frank jawboning and backslapping with them. Over the course of the evening, I’d come to realize that, like my sister, they seemed to be watching me more than Frank. Like the events at the pier, it was just another sign that the wheels of things I didn’t yet understand were now in motion. Where it was all headed, I hadn’t a clue.
37
Sal was having coffee with my mother and aunt when I came downstairs a little after seven. He launched the day’s first shot before I got through the door.
“Thought you were gonna be up there all day, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Buon giorno, Zia Teresa. Buon giorno, Mamma,” I said. Sal got the dagger eyes.
“Vuoi café, figlio mio?” my mother asked.
“Sì, Mamma. C’e colazione ancora?”
“Ohh,” interjected Sal, “whaddya mean, ‘breakfast’? We gotta get goin’ here.” He tapped his watch heavily several times for emphasis. “Frank’ll be waiting.”
I scrunched up one half of my face, turned in his direction. “Going? Where?”
“To take Frank to Meigs Field. Aren’t you gonna see him off?”
I had hoped to spend the morning with my family. But it wouldn’t take that long to drop him at the lakefront airport. Besides, I had several suits he’d paid for hanging unused in a closet up on the top floor of the hotel that I had to pick up.
I had a couple of important questions for him as well.
“Give me ten minutes to shower up—if I can beat Zio Nello to the bathroom.”
“Hurry it up,” Sal grunted. “I can’t be late. I’m not some fly-by-night freight jockey who just drops in whenever he feels like it.”
My Kind of Town Page 13
