The Significant Seven

by John McEvoy

  She wasn’t finished. “Have you ever read one of the instructive books about controlling anger? I’ve had friends who found them very helpful.” She paused before adding, “My ex-husband might have benefited from one of them.”

  “Actually,” Doyle said, “my second and last wife gave me a couple of books by one of those so-called anger management experts years ago. Paid a lot of money for them. Had me watch one of his videos, too.”

  “Did you read them?” Karen said.

  “Read the first one, skimmed the second,” Doyle said. “They really pissed me off. The video, too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  June 21, 2009

  Doyle slept fitfully for a couple of hours, got up, started his CD player just after two. He lay on his couch and listened to the new Karynn Allison, an old Anita O’Day, an even older Al Hibbler with the Ellington band. Music he loved.

  But he couldn’t lose himself in these ordinarily intriguing sounds. The Question kept reoccurring. Why were these horse owners dying, long before their time? Were the deaths really accidental? Did they have anything to do with the sponging? Three out of seven, gone in less than two months, what the hell is that? Should he raise this with Tirabassi and Engel?

  At dawn, he got into his jogging clothes and started for the lakefront. By eight, showered and with his first cup of coffee in hand, he was ready to call Moe Kellman in the furrier’s Hancock Building suite of offices.

  Kellman picked up on the first ring. “Jack, I’m late today, but I’m about to head for the club. You want to work out?”

  “No, I had a run already. You’ll have to go to Fit City by yourself. But I need to talk. Help is needed.”

  Kellman said, “My least favorite words. Second only to ‘We Ship’ when Leah and I are in Europe.”

  “Moe, I’m serious. How about lunch, or dinner?”

  “Cannot do, Jack. I’m tied up for lunch. And I’m not going out for dinner tonight. I’ve got another engagement. Hold on, Jack,” Kellman said, placing Doyle on hold.

  A minute later, Kellman came back on the phone. “Listen, I’ve got to be at this thing tonight. How about you come along with me? I’m going to a bridal shower. We can talk then.”

  Silence until Doyle said, “Are you into the Negronis over there at this early hour? Did you say a bridal shower?”

  “It’s for Fifi Bonadio’s only granddaughter. Angela. Love of his life.” Moe paused to drain his second cup of herbal tea.

  “I’ve got to be there, Jack, and I’ve got a full-up day. Why don’t you come along? You might get a kick out of it.”

  Doyle thought, My life seems to get nuttier by the month. But, what the hell. Of all the things that Moe and his life associations added up to none, as far as Doyle knew, was ever boring. He said, “Okay. I’m game.”

  “I’ll have Pete pick you up at six. And wear a suit.”

  Doyle could not resist. “To a shower?”

  Moe hung up.

  ***

  Dunleavy that evening drove them north and west from the center of the city to a wedding hall in Elmwood Park. It was a large, one-story brick building with an impressive faux Roman portico and a huge parking lot that was nearly filled with expensive automobiles. Dunleavy pulled up next to the front entrance. An attendant quickly opened the rear passenger door. Kellman said, “This’ll take a couple of hours, Pete. You want to go somewhere, I’ll call you on your cell phone.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Kellman. There’s a real good Italian restaurant not far from here.”

  “At least a half-dozen of them in this town,” Kellman said. “Try Panino’s. You can’t go wrong there. Get the osso bucco.”

  Kellman and Doyle were greeted inside the door by the proud grandfather of the bride-to-be. Fifi Bonadio kissed Kellman on both cheeks before giving Doyle a brief nod. Bonadio’s thick head of hair was as white as Kellman’s, but that was the extent of their physical similarities. The top of Kellman’s head came up to Bonadio’s chin. Bonadio was about Doyle’s height, dressed in a beautifully tailored dark blue suit, blue tie on a shirt so white it reflected ceiling light. Bonadio’s long face, with its thin lips and strong chin, was deeply tanned. Had it not been for his prominent Roman nose, he would have qualified as superbly handsome. The package presented, Doyle thought, was formidable.

  Bonadio and Kellman had been friends since their boyhood days on Chicago’s near West Side, Kellman being one of the few Jewish kids in the small, insulated, Italian-dominated neighborhood. Their friendship extended more than sixty years.

  Their host led them down a flower-bedecked corridor into a vast room that was overhung with garish, gold-colored chandeliers. Looking neither left nor right, Bonadio walked them past dozens of tables and several hundred people already seated to the front of an eight-chair table centered in front of the stage. The atmosphere in the room was a combination of enticing cooking odors from the kitchen, strong and expensive perfume on well-dressed women, powerful after shave on some of their male companions, and the palpable sense of expectations for the program ahead.

  There was one table in the front row slightly set apart. It held a small, operating, electric fan. Its occupants, five extremely aged Italian men, in black suits and tie-less white shirts,were drinking Chianti from straw-encased bottles, smoking the acrid little dry-cured cigars popular long ago in their Sicilian youth. “There’s no smoking allowed in here,” Bonadio said. “My granddaughter Angela is death on smoking. In the middle of the table, that’s my papa and his goombahs. Angela gave Papa and his old friends special permission.”

  A waiter approached just as the three men sat down at their table. Bonadio said, “Bruno, two Negronis. Doyle?”

  “Bushmills on the rocks.”

  Bonadio waved Moe to a seat, then positioned himself in the center facing the stage. He motioned to Doyle to sit next to Moe. Almost immediately two very large men arrived. They nodded respectfully to Bonadio and settled into chairs on the other side of the table, their broad backs to the stage, eyes on the room.

  Doyle looked at the large man on his left. “I know you,” he said. “You were with the Bears, right?”

  Bonadio said, “Meet Rick Fasulo. Yeah, he used to play for the Bears. He works for me now. That’s Frank Andreoli next to him.” Both men nodded at Doyle. Andreoli was not as large as the former NFL linebacker, but physically imposing in his own right, wearing a sport coat Doyle estimated to be about a size fifty long. “They’re in charge of crowd control,” Bonadio said.

  Their drinks were delivered. So was an antipasto tray big enough to accommodate a Bears practice squad. “Buon appetito, Mr. Bonadio,” the waiter said, bowing. Bonadio placed a century bill in the waiter’s hand. “Grazie, Bruno,” he said.

  Moe and Bonadio clinked their glasses, Moe then touching his to Doyle’s. They drank deeply. Bonadio said, “Gentlemen, excuse me for a few minutes. I have to greet the parents of my future son-in-law.” He moved briskly toward the room’s entrance, extending his hand toward that of a well-dressed, solidly built, blond-haired man whose diminutive wife clung to his left arm as if to a life preserver in an ocean gale. After the handshake, Bonadio reached for the little woman’s hand and kissed it. She blushed.

  “Is your pal Bonadio always so courtly?” Doyle said to Moe.

  Moe said, “Ah, no. We’ve known each other since first grade. He’s always been a pretty serious person.” He took a sip of his drink before adding, “But Feef has a lighter side.”

  Doyle said, “A lighter side? Like Pol Pot had a lighter side?”

  Moe said, “Just cool it, Jack. Enjoy the scene.”

  “It’s big enough.”

  Kellman surveyed the room, a look of pride and satisfaction on his face. “If this were winter, Jack, 90 percent of the women here tonight would have checked their Kellman the Furrier coats on the way in. Or kept the best ones on the backs of their chairs to impress the neighboring tables.”

  After signali
ng Bruno for a refill, Moe said, “You call this ‘big,’ Jack? Feh. The wedding reception will have three times as many people. These youngsters will be married in Holy Name Cathedral downtown. The reception will be at the Dayton Hotel on the river. All class, and very, very pricey.” He sat back in his chair. “When I was a kid on the West Side,” Kellman said, “one of our favorite things was night wedding receptions in the summer. My pals, the Italians, their families knew how to do it right.”

  Doyle said, “What was so special?”

  “When we were thirteen, fourteen, special was putting on your only sport coat if you owned one. Otherwise you borrowed from a brother. You waited near the basement door of the school gym. The wedding reception would be upstairs. They’d serve dinner, then people would get up from their tables and take to the dance floor. That’s when we would slide through the basement door. Me, Feef, Mario, Augie, Tommy, a bunch of us punks. Acting like we belonged once we got upstairs, pretending to be wedding guests. We’d go up to the bartender and he’d draw a seven-ounce glass of tap beer for everyone of us. Whoof! That was exciting.”

  “But the best part came about ten-thirty those nights. The wedding dinner’s long over. The guests have all had wedding cake, their anisettes, grappas, coffee, whatever. The band takes a break. And up from the basement kitchen come women carrying laundry baskets full of Italian beef sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, best sandwiches I ever ate. People just reached in and picked up their sandwich. A lady named Marie DiCastri was the chief cook for the whole deal. She was a legend on Taylor Street.”

  Moe drained his Negroni glass. He signaled the waiter for another as Bonadio rejoined them. “Things all right?” He included Doyle in his look of inquiry.

  “Beautiful, Feef,” Keelman said. “Relax. Enjoy.”

  As the dinner continued, Doyle noticed a stocky, black-haired, middle-aged man making his rounds of the tables. He wore an expensive-looking suit, and his designer haircut swept his long, lightly graying hair back across his handsome head. He shook hands with the men, bestowed kisses on the cheeks of the delighted women. The old men at the lone smoking table all got to their feet and bowed when he reached them.

  Doyle nudged Moe’s elbow. “Who the hell’s that? The Papal Emissary?”

  “Jack, show some class. Remember where you are.”

  “I am. My question remains.”

  Moe, seeing Bonadio in conversation with one of the several priests in attendance, leaned closer to Doyle. “The guy you’re asking about is Dominic Romano. You never heard of him?”

  Doyle said, “Does he have a Chicago newspaper name? Like Dominic (Greasy Thumb) Romano? Dominic (Little Tuna) Romano? Golf Bag Dominic Romano? I thought this neighborhood was the home of colorful Outfit nicknames.”

  Moe turned away. Doyle said, “Aw, c’mon, Moe, I’m just jiving.”

  “Then keep your Irish Bushmills voice down, okay?”

  “Okay. What about this Romano?”

  Moe leaned closer. “That man is Elmwood Park’s contribution to the Illinois State Senate. Dominic has, well, an interesting background for a now prominent legislator. As a youngster, he worked as a burglar, but he was terrible at it. Later, his Uncle Feef put him in the restaurant business. Another disaster.” Moe smiled. “Success finally came to Dominic at O’Hare Airport, while he continued with his Outfit apprenticeship.”

  Doyle said, “At O’Hare? Doing what?”

  “This was during the summers, when Dominic was off from college. He and a couple of his buddies worked the long-term parking lot at O’Hare. Feef got them the jobs, I am sure. Dominic worked there for two summers and made a hell of a lot of money for all concerned.”

  “How?”

  “Say a guy parked his car long-term and told the attendant what day he’d be back. If he’d be gone two weeks, say, Dominic and his buddies rented out the guy’s car for a few days. To people they knew, or who heard about them from people they knew. People who didn’t want to fuck with Hertz or National. They charged half price of what the rental companies did.

  “Word got around. They developed a nice list of clients, many through referrals. Men and women flying into Chicago, needing a car short-term for business, bringing it back and paying cash for what was them a bargain fee. But a nice fee for Dominic and Company. All cash, all off the books.”

  Doyle said, “Wait. Wouldn’t the car owner suspect his car had been used?”

  “Jack, Jack,” Moe smiled. “You don’t think Dominic’s crew had keys to fit these cars and knew how to adjust odometers?”

  “What if the renter, getting this bargain deal, gets the car dinged up? How does that look to the owners when he comes back to retrieve his car?”

  “Dominic would tell the guy that some bad driver, unbeknownst to him, must have clipped the guy’s car while it was parked in the lot. They’d tell the owner, ‘Call your insurance company.’”

  “One time,” Moe said, “one of their renters got sideswiped on the Kennedy. The car, a BMW I think it was, got bashed in pretty good. The renter called Dominic in a panic. Dominic had a tow-truck there in a half-hour. They haul the BMW back to O’Hare. Two days later, the BMW’s owner gets off his plane and take the bus to long-term. When he sees his car, he goes nuts. Dom tells him there was some reckless guy leaving the parking lot in a hurry who hit his BMW. Couldn’t get the guy’s license plate, he says. Tells him how sorry he is. The guy, still pissed, says, ‘Aren’t you responsible for what goes on here?’

  “Dominic’s assistants join the conversation, big, mean-looking Dagoes. Dominic tells the BMW owner, ‘Go ahead, file a complaint if you want to. You’re Mr. So-and-So and you live at such and such.’ They’ve already identified this guy, figuring there might be trouble. ‘And you’ve got three young kids’, and, so on and so on. The guy gets the message. That was the end of that problem.”

  Doyle, thinking about perhaps parking his Accord some time in long term at O’Hare, asked, “Moe, is this scam still going on?”

  “No, no, Jack. Dominic and his buddies were the last of that. Dominic got his degree, did some lawyering for a few years, got on the state ballot, got a nice big push from the boys downtown, and has stayed in the legislature and kept his nose clean.”

  “I’ll bet,” Doyle muttered.

  “Well, mostly,” Moe said.

  ***

  The stage curtains opened, revealing an eight-piece band and its singer-leader wearing a Tony Bennett-type tuxedo and hair style. He launched into an enthusiastic rendition of “That’s Amore,” a song Doyle well remembered his parents playing years ago on a record, the Dean Martin version.

  Two more numbers followed. Then the singer-leader introduced himself “to this wonderful group of friends of Mr. Bonadio and his wonderful family” as Tony Molinaro. He went on to inform them that “the bride-to-be, Miss Angela Bonadio, and her lucky, lucky, I mean lucky, husband-to-be, Carson Briggs, will now join us.”

  From the left of the stage emerged a couple of twenty-somethings. The girl was stylish in a black cocktail dress, her companion in a suit similar to Fifi Bonadio’s. She was beautiful, slim, dark-complexioned, long legged, a bountiful bust above her small waist. “She looks a lot like her late grandmother. Feef’s late wife was a dazzler,” Moe whispered to Doyle. Angela waved to the crowd. Briggs stood next to her in the spotlight, gripping her left hand like a watchful attendant. He was a sturdy lad, blond hair close-cropped, a confident look on his handsome face. Doyle was reminded of some of the college jocks he had known, wrestlers mainly.

  All the people in the room were now on their feet. Bonadio stopped his loud applauding to say to Moe, “This kid Briggs, he’s a good kid. Not one of us, but a good kid. I vetted him out real good. Angela’s crazy about him. They’ll do fine. Briggs will take over that bank of ours down in Park Forest, I’ll start him there. Angela still wants to keep teaching at Parker School, so they’re going to live in the Lincoln Park condo I bought them.”

 
Moe raised his Negroni. “Salud, Feef.” They bumped glasses. Doyle sat down. He said to the solicitous waiter, Bruno, “Another Bushmills.”

  Tony Molinaro asked the crowd to be seated. Into the microphone he shouted, “Let the gifts begin.”

  In the next half-hour, Doyle looked on in amazement. Backstage workers began by wheeling out a fifty- inch flat screen TV, then a CD player and Bose speakers, compliments, Tony Molinaro said, “of our friend Peter Salerno, the asphalt king.”

  Next came a set of expensive-looking living room furniture, “compliments of Chicago’s prince of produce, Joe Pomponi.” Cartons of crockery and china and cutlery followed, the contributor of each loudly identified and applauded. As the bedroom set was trundled forth, emcee Molinaro had in his mind a risqué cheer of his own. But when he peered through the spotlight at Bonadio, he changed his mind. A hulking refrigerator, two smaller television sets, an antique dining room table “from nearly the time of the Borgias,” Molinaro joked, were placed on the crowded stage. At the arrival of each present, Angela and Carson hugged and clapped and waved their thanks.

  Midway through this parade of houseware and appliances, Doyle signaled Bruno for a refill. He tried to compose himself. He knew the look on his face must be an alcohol-driven one of mirth and amazement at this exhibition of extravagance. He ignored what he knew to be Moe’s occasional warning looks. Bonadio’s eyes remained riveted on Angela.

  The band struck an attention-getting chord that ended in a flourish. The lights dimmed. It took four attendants to push into the stage spotlight the blue and white Mini Cooper convertible that, Molinaro shouted, was a “special gift to Angela from her proud grandpa, our host tonight, Mr. Fifi Bonadio.” The room erupted in applause. Angela hugged Carson before running down the stairs from the stage to embrace Bonadio. The band played on.

  Doyle excused himself and went to the washroom. Rick Fasulo got up from their table and walked beside him. “Amazing stuff,” Doyle said to the big ex-Bear. “Oh, yeah,” Fasulo grunted. Andreoli walked on Fasulo’s other side, equally large and noncommital.