Another nod.
“Good. You should get my drift better this time than last time. Maybe the seizure made you forget, maybe it didn’t. Anyway, messing around with this business is like messing with God himself. You’ll get burned and so will your wife. You’re messing with big fish here, man. I mean big fish. You still listening?”
Nod.
Back on the first floor, Tyrone went down the hall toward the storage room to get the cases of toilet paper. But he stopped off at the men’s room to think. He wished he was out with Latoya right now instead of in this place. If he ever told Latoya about all this, she’d probably tell him to get lost. That’s how straight she was. Even when he got the DeVille and made up some shit about a loan, she saw right through him.
If there was any more trouble from this guy Babe, he guessed there was only one way out of it. As he flushed the toilet, he vowed that if this went any further, if Babe kept up his interest in the closet and in Tyrone’s business, maybe it would be best to let Flat Nose or even DeJesus handle it. Of course DeJesus wouldn’t handle it himself. No, DeJesus would have a flunky do the dirty work, a short-fuse flunky like Flat Nose.
Shit, he was probably lucky Flat Nose hadn’t killed him after the squabble in the car outside Mrs. Babe’s apartment. Must have been a lucky night all around, him feeling his oats at the exact same time Flat Nose was sidetracked sniffin’ beaver. But one thing Flat Nose had was a good memory. Ever since that night Flat Nose obviously had something on his mind, one of those things that won’t let go until he blows his fuse and levels someone. He’d seen Flat Nose like this before, like he’s got a plan and won’t be satisfied until he carries it out. Worst of all was the possibility that Flat Nose and DeJesus might have something going down they haven’t told him about. If that was true, and if they were looking to put him out of the picture, he’d better damn well do something to save himself.
When Tyrone left the men’s room, he continued walking toward the storage room where the toilet paper was kept. Besides needing some on the third floor, he’d have to bring some back where he’d just been because he used the last of it.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Although it had been only a few days since their last meeting, Hanley insisted they meet again. Only this time, instead of having to drive across the state to Naples, Hanley arranged to fly into Miami. They agreed to meet at the airport in the bar outside the security area. Valdez was on time and saw by the flight monitor that Hanley’s flight would be late. While he waited, Valdez had a glass of red wine. For several years, since hearing reports of the benefits of red wine, Valdez had made a habit of sipping a red wine at some point dur ing his day. Usually, because of other commitments, he had to wait until evening. But today, because he did not have to drive to Naples to meet with Hanley, he decided to take advantage of the situation. He’d even turned off his phone. No need to stay in contact with anyone ex cept Skinner, and Skinner never called him on his cell phone. By the time Hanley arrived, Valdez felt quite relaxed.
Hanley dropped his small carryon bag onto one of the extra chairs at the table and, seeing Valdez’s wine glass, asked, “What are you having?”
“A California Merlot.”
“Perhaps I’ll have one,” said Hanley, raising his hand to get the bartender’s attention.
Valdez turned, pointing to his empty glass, to himself, and also to Hanley. A few seconds later they clinked glasses like old friends and sipped their wine.
Except for Hanley’s white sneakers, both wore casual business at tire, slacks and button shirts. To airline passengers rushing past the bar, they probably looked like a pair of typical Miami old goats after an early morning round of golf.
“Did you bring your clubs?” asked Valdez, smiling.
“Golf clubs?”
“Yes.”
“You know I don’t golf.”
Valdez took another sip of wine. “No fishing and no golfing make Hanley a dull boy.”
“Right,” said Hanley. “How many of those have you had?”
“This is only my second,” said Valdez.
“If you’re driving you’d better make it your last.”
“I wasn’t sure how long you’d be. Besides, you know what they say about red wine.”
“What do they say?” asked Hanley.
“Helps keep the arteries clear. Less chance of a stroke.”
“If anyone’s listening in we must sound like a couple of old farts.”
Both men smiled and chuckled.
“Seriously,” said Valdez. “I took the afternoon off. And since I knew you’d be here eventually I thought I’d let you drive. I assume you’ll want to stay at the condo tonight.”
“Right,” said Hanley. “I think it best I stay in town until this thing in Chicago is resolved. Have you heard any more news from the rehab facility about our friend with a stroke?”
“I have,” said Valdez. “Contact number one now thinks the stroke patient is aware of more than he is letting on. He and his wife attend ed the funeral and met with members of the family. Their meeting might have had a purpose beyond simply extending condolences.”
“In what way?”
“Our second contact thinks the detective must have communicat ed information to his wife. She called an acquaintance in the Chicago Police Department and made implications. Apparently both the fam ily and the local scam artists have become possible suspects.”
“That’s interesting,” said Hanley, taking a gulp of wine before continuing. “You know what will happen if either the husband or the wife pursues this.”
“The nephew?” asked Valdez.
“Right,” said Hanley. “Max the Fly will buzz around until some thing blows up in someone’s face. You know we can’t let that happen.”
“I know,” said Valdez. “What do you suggest?”
“I’ll stay in town,” said Hanley. “Tell the office to have a plane to Chicago ready.”
“You’re going to Chicago?”
“Not only me,” said Hanley. “Both of us. If the elderly lady re peated things to another stroke victim that we’re not aware of, we have no choice. And who better to pay a visit to a rehabilitation facil ity than two old farts? If we do go, by the way, get yourself a pair of sneakers or at least lighter-colored shoes. We’ll need to be in charac ter. And even though I don’t golf, perhaps we’ll take along a couple sets of clubs.”
“We’re taking clubs to Chicago?” asked Valdez. “The weather’s lousy there.”
“We’ve been on a golf excursion and we’re heading home to see how our wives are doing at their rehab. Wear a golf jacket with deep inside pockets. I’ve got a golf cap to wear. Old guys always wear caps, so maybe you could come up with one.”
“Deep inside pockets,” repeated Valdez. “Well, I guess if someone has to go it might as well be us. We’ll fit right in.”
“By the way,” said Hanley. “What’s the name of our number two out there?”
Valdez smiled. “You old goat. It’s Maria and you know it.”
Hanley downed his wine and stood. “We’d better get going. We can speak in more detail at the condo and I’d like to have time for a workout at the health club and get a good night’s sleep in case we have to fly out tomorrow.”
The two men walked down the long hallway toward the park ing lot. Their gaits were noticeably slower and somewhat bowlegged compared to the younger people passing them in both directions. The only two older than the pair was an elderly couple being transported by a skycap in a beeping electric cart. At the conveyor walkway, both men paused, the younger of the two taking the carryon while the other rubbed his arthritic hands together. On the walkway they stood one behind the other as men, women, and children rushed past them.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Although it was early in the day, the weather outside made it seem like night. The two day shift guards at the Saint Mel in the Woods Rehabilitation Facility main lobby desk amused them selve
s watching smokers try to suck down a few drags without getting soaked as wind-blown rain slanted beneath the portico at the entrance. Technically, smoking was allowed only around the corner from the entrance in an unprotected area with benches and a sand bucket for butts, but the wind from the southeast caused smokers to try to find whatever protection they could, a course of action that amounted to pacing along the western edge of the portico.
“Think one of us should go out there and tell them they’re sup posed to be around the corner out in the rain?”
“Wouldn’t do any good. They always insist they’re on their way in or out. That’s why they keep pacing. They’ve lost their regular smok ing spot and they’ve got to keep moving.”
After a man in an overcoat stepped around the corner to smash out his butt, he ran back inside, taking off his coat and shaking it out in the vestibule.
“Won’t see many smokers this day. Look at him, like a hound dog come out of the pond.”
The next smoker to venture out was in a wheelchair, a man in a leather jacket and a red baseball cap. The man had gotten off the el evator, circled the front counter and was now sitting outside beneath the portico puffing away.
“Think he’s a patient or a visitor?”
“Could be a rehab outpatient. I’ve seen him before.”
“If he is, he’s new. Not here long enough to know he can go up to the fourth floor and use the private balcony.”
“What private balcony? I didn’t know there was a balcony up there.”
“Nurses and aides smoke out there, and sometimes use their cell phone minutes out there. As a courtesy, they usually allow smokers in wheelchairs, too. Of course they lock up the balcony when the in spectors are here.”
“Look now. He ain’t just smokin’, he’s got a cell phone.”
“Yeah, maybe he went outside to use it instead of in the building.”
“We gonna roust him for smoking under the portico when he comes back inside?”
“What do you think? Is it worth it? Or should we let it pass?”
“Maybe the guy’s got no car to smoke in. Maybe he took the bus here like a lot of us poor folks has to.”
“I see your point.”
“Another thing in the guy’s favor, he’s using his cell phone outside even though usage isn’t as serious here as back at the hospital. Not as much equipment that can get messed up.”
“Okay, so we don’t roust him.”
“Would you say the same if he was black?”
“Come on, don’t get on me.”
“Okay. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“Here he comes back. Soaked from the lap down.”
“Yeah, wind blowing under the portico. Notice how his phone is tucked away so we don’t have to say anything that’ll complicate his life or our lives.”
“Is it a lot quieter working this place than back at the hospital?”
“Hell yes. Back there you don’t know what might come through those doors.”
Both guards glanced back as the man in the leather jacket and red baseball cap headed for the bank of elevators. Directly in front of the elevators, mounted in a frame on a high chrome stand, was the sign an nouncing that cellular phones were not to be used beyond this point. When the man wheeled his chair past the sign and into an elevator and the door slid closed, the two guards turned back to look outside, wait ing for the next smoker.
“It’s usually like a graveyard here at night. Sometimes I can hear the old folks snoring out in the nursing wing. ‘Course in this weather with the flight paths at O’Hare switched around …”
“When you goin’ on nights anyway?”
“I feel like I’m on nights now from the look of that sky out there.”
“Come on, for real.”
“In three weeks I go on for two.”
As the two guards stared out at the rain slanting beneath the portico, a rumbling gathered overhead. In a lounge to one side of the lobby, visi tors, unfamiliar with the fact that strong southeasterly winds changed the takeoff patterns at O’Hare, stared up at the ceiling in disbelief.
The sharp cold of the morning rain surprised her. Although there
had been no wind at all the previous night as she peeked out the front window of the apartment at the man shadowboxing in the parking lot, that had apparently been the calm before the storm.
A couple weeks earlier, weather reporters had been hyping the early spring weather, one even implying that the warm weather of late February and early March might be a positive effect of global warm ing. But now, strong wind slanted the rain as if it were snow, biting when it smacked her face. As she ran from the apartment entrance to her car she imagined a reporter using this cold snap to discredit global warming. If she were with Steve and a reporter used the cold snap to do this, she knew it would make him sad. He’d stop smiling, look down, shake his head, and she’d know what he was thinking. He’d be thinking that the entire world and everyone in it had had a stroke.
On the roads, drivers who had also been bitten by the cold and wet were angry, honking and cutting one another off even though it was Friday morning and folks should be looking forward to the week end. At a stoplight, when a car refused to move ahead so the honking car behind could squeeze through for a right turn on red, the Hispanic woman being honked at held up her middle finger for the Oriental man behind to see and the man reacted to this by angrily holding up his middle finger. Perhaps because the weather made outdoor activi ties impossible, traffic was heavy, folks out banking or grocery shop ping or getting the dog groomed, or simply letting off steam on the last day of a hectic work week.
To Jan, the world seemed an especially cold and violent place that morning, a place in which no one would give a damn if an old woman in a nursing home was shoved through death’s door prematurely, a cynical place where disability is equated with death. That some might even wish early death to the disabled in order to ease the health care burden on the economy depressed her. But when she parked her car and ran into the library, it was warm and bright and the head librarian greeted her and she recalled the times she’d been here with Steve. Sud denly she felt much better about the world and got down to work.
It didn’t take long on the computerized newspaper and periodical search systems to find references to the Gianetti family. The first was a series of articles published after Antonio Gianetti’s death in May of 1986. Gianetti’s life fit the mold of a mobster. The organization he allegedly headed (there was always that word allegedly in the referenc es) had been into gambling, loan sharking, construction and trucking scams, prostitution. According to the articles he’d been one of the last old-time Chicago hoods. Even his death—found shot in the head in the trunk of his Lincoln—followed the pattern.
A columnist in the Chicago Sun-Times wrote a semi-humorous piece shortly after the killing indicating that there hadn’t been this kind of gangland execution in a long time in Chicago and perhaps the city fathers could capitalize on it by having some kind of lakefront festival. It would be a celebration of the old days with its “olde-time” lessons. The serious part of the article speculated that someone out side Chicago might have fingered Gianetti for giving organized crime a bad name, perhaps having the hit man, or men, flown in and out. The article further speculated that a national or international orga nization might have felt Gianetti was getting too wholesome of late, being he hadn’t been in the news in a long time and seemed to enjoy the privacy of his family life. The article also hinted the killing might have had something to do with Illinois or Chicago politics, but gave no specifics.
When Jan searched for other things that might have been going on in 1986, she found the Chernobyl disaster had taken place shortly before Gianetti’s murder. The Chernobyl disaster occurred in late April, but because news was slow coming out of the old Soviet Union the news peaked in early May, Chernobyl taking over the front pages while reports of Gianetti’s murder were buried inside. Chernobyl, 1986. Yes, that was probably the reason t
he word Chernobyl was part of Marjorie’s vocabulary. Her husband murdered when Chernobyl was in the news.
Jan spent over an hour going through all the articles she could find on Antonio Gianetti. The result was more of the same. Gianetti had been suspected of heading an “old-fashioned Chicago-style” orga nization for almost three decades, had been charged with numerous crimes but never prosecuted, and apparently leaned toward so-called “clean” businesses like gambling and construction and the wholesale produce business, only occasionally venturing into prostitution. The two things that stood out after reading all the articles were that Gia netti had maintained a low profile in the years prior to his death, and had also managed, during his entire career, to keep any mention or coverage of his family out of the media. In all the articles, not once was his residence, or even whether he lived in the city or suburbs, mentioned. One article written after his death alluded to this, saying maybe Gianetti had been more powerful than anyone imagined, and implying that, over the years, he was able to get to newspaper editors as well as television and radio station managers in order to maintain his privacy. Apparently he’d been a big Reagan supporter and worked behind the scenes to make sure, as one article put it, “There’d be no more Kennedy or Carter style Democrats put into office.” There was no mention in any of the archived articles from the eighties and nine ties of Marjorie or Antonio Junior.
Looking further back into the seventies and even the sixties, Jan found a cross-reference mentioning Gianetti in a Newsweek article about waning support for then President Nixon. Gianetti was one of several “so-called self-proclaimed patriots” quoted in the article.
Final Stroke Page 17
