Flicker & Burn: A Cold Fury Novel

by T. M. Goeglein

  He pointed east. “Ready? Watch.”

  Far out over the snaking lanes of the Kennedy Expressway, traffic was just beginning to move like distant, tiny beetles, while farther beyond, an orange-pink aura glowed over Lake Michigan. The sun rose by the second, throwing back the blanket of darkness from the suddenly shimmering city and sending a wave of light rolling toward us. When it finally kissed the dew-covered dome, a veil of gold covered Max and me—we looked at each other incandescently—and he said, “It’s just like Saint Peter’s in Rome. This is the light of Italy, Sara Jane.” It was the most beautiful moment of my life—literally a moment, since its luminescence faded almost as soon as it had begun. I closed my eyes, trying to absorb it before it faded—the peacefulness of the early morning roof, the guardian angels, the dome of gold with Max next to me—and I felt his hand pressing mine. This time there was no voltage, only warmth. I looked down at a medallion he’d placed in my palm. It was round steel with a raised blue T on one side and Triumph on the other, also in blue, the tail of the R underlining the word. Max said, “It’s the logo from my motorcycle. You know, a Triumph. It’s a vintage zipper pull from a biker jacket, like, from the 1950s. People wore them to look cool.”

  “It is . . . so cool,” I said, turning the thick, quarter-sized metal in my hand.

  He cleared his throat and moved a lock of hair from his face. “So it’s my way of saying that I don’t ever want to not . . . be with you.” His cheeks colored at the tangle of words. “I mean, us being together is good . . . better than us not being together.”

  “Max, I totally agree.”

  He looked into my eyes, smiled a little, and his nerves evaporated. “Things have been so weird between us. And when you told me about the guy, Tyler . . .”

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It was nothing,” I said, regretting the heartache I’d caused. “Less than nothing.”

  “Really?” he said. “Because with you, Sara Jane, only you . . . the best way to say it is that you make me feel more like myself and less alone. You know what I mean?”

  I understood then that he needed me as much as I needed him. Maybe it had to do with both of us feeling the void of our families—his dad in California, his mom dating “Gary the dentist,” and Max somewhere in between. For me, it was the fact that since forever, my parents made Lou and me understand that they loved nothing in the world more than us simply because we existed. That love freed me to be who I am; without it, I felt the opposite of free, trapped in aloneness except when I’m with Max.

  “I thought you could wear it next to your mom’s ring,” he said.

  I touched at my neck and removed the chain holding the gold signet ring. I’d worn it there since Lou gave it to me on the Ferris wheel before he slipped away, back into the void of Chicago. The medallion felt cold and real in my hand; the T on one side and that word on the other, Triumph, seemed like a good omen. It was a symbol of feelings that were exclusively between us, just Max and me, and it suddenly seemed important that it stand alone. I removed the ring from the chain, put the medallion in its place, and slipped the ring on my index finger. It was then, hugging Max as hard as I could with my eyes squeezed shut, that I decided to trust him and tell him everything.

  When I opened them, we were being watched.

  I would have missed it if I’d blinked.

  He was on the parapet, standing behind one of the angels, imitating its stance to remain unseen, until he moved an inch to get a better look.

  I continued holding Max tight in order to watch who was watching us. It was a guy in filthy jeans, shredded hoodie, and beater boots, and when he moved again, I saw his face and stifled a gasp; it was nearly the same bleached tone as Teardrop’s. His head had been violently shaved in a manner similar to Lou’s when I’d seen him at the Ferris wheel, and he was thicker than the creatures—not quite as model-thin, but close. And then he shifted, revealing more of his face.

  Even from that distance I could see the shocking contrast of one blue eye and the other glowing ice-cream-creature red.

  I turned then, and he saw me move and leaped like a rabbit. Pushing away from Max, I sprinted across the roof, gawking over the edge. The street and sidewalks were empty. Then something moved on the apartment house across the street, where he scrabbled up the drainpipe. Max came up alongside me, saying, “What’s wrong?” I kept my eyes on the opposite roof, seeing the guy hop away across building tops, and by the time Max looked in the same direction, he was gone. “Did you see something?”

  I had, I just wasn’t sure what until my paranoia answered—if the guy had something to do with the ice cream trucks, it was a blip of danger that just barely veered past Max. I swallowed hard, touched the medallion, and forced a smile. “It’s just . . . this means so much to me. I was overwhelmed for a second because I feel the same way you do.” He took me into his arms, and I looked over his shoulder at empty rooftops, my gut whispering how the guy had been a forewarning of something bad about to happen.

  And then it did.

  “So,” Max said, “does this mean I can finally meet your parents and brother?”

  I’d feared it was coming at some point. I may not have dated much before Max (understatement alert) but at least realized that not introducing him to my family meant that I was embarrassed to be with him. The statute of limitations had run out on my original excuse—they would’ve had to be on the longest cruise in history. For someone who tries to be prepared for every eventuality, I was caught flat-footed, and when I opened my mouth to lie, nothing came out. “I’ll stop by your house any night this week that you choose,” he said. “I’m inviting myself, and I won’t take no for an answer. It’s my fault I wasn’t around all summer to meet them. It’s way overdue.”

  Nodding dumbly, I realized that there was no realistic way to explain my vacant, locked-up house.

  I was as cornered as I had been on the Wilson Avenue Bridge, except this time there was no escape.

  8

  THE DEEPER I SUBMERGE MYSELF INTO THE Outfit and the more I struggle with whom I’m becoming, the more I doubt that anyone lives one life with only a single identity.

  No one is solely who she says she is or does only what she claims to do. In the Outfit, every front business has a back room where the real business is conducted, and a person’s name on his driver’s license is not the name he goes by on the street. Smiling Bill’s Auto Barn, which sells steel-belted radials and snow tires on the showroom floor, also deals heroin out of the back, where Bill is not known to smile—ever—and is referred to by associates as “Willy the Needle.” The customers of a beloved Greek diner known for its simple but tasty fare have no idea that Gus, its kind, elderly owner who hands out lollipops to their children, is one of the most notorious bookies in Chicago, “Greasy Thumb” Gus, taking illegal action from addicted gamblers on any sporting event in the world. And it’s not just business owners. Police Detective O’Hara, twice decorated for heroism in the line of duty, has made so much money moonlighting as an enforcer for the Outfit that he was able to buy a cozy little weekend getaway in the Wisconsin Dells. His preferred method of enforcement is a lead pipe to the kneecap or elbow joint. Detective O’Hara has worked over so many bones, he’s known as “the Chiropractor.” It may seem like two-facedness is something to be endured only in high school—think of the super-popular cheerleader, envied by one and all, who suddenly kills herself or the straight-A honor student who deals weed—but the truth is that the potential for duality is alive in each human being.

  I’m the perfect example.

  From 8:15 a.m. until 3:30 p.m., I am Sara Jane Rispoli, Fep Prep junior.

  During other more intense hours, I’m Sara Jane Rispoli, counselor-at-large.

  Each time I preside over another sit-down between criminals, my brain grows more crowded with filthy, unwanted facts, and the more I become part of the Outfit. It’s a line you hear in movies all the time—“She knew too much”—but it’s true, I know far too much abou
t far too many dangerous people. As I’ve progressed in the role, I’ve sat in judgment over conflicts about neighborhood prostitution borders, squabbles between drug dealers over contaminated cocaine, claims by extortionists, kidnappers, and gun-runners that they weren’t paid enough—and then there are the endless altercations between Money, the vital branch of the Outfit run by Tyler Strozzini, and the equally pivotal Muscle, directed by old Knuckles Battuta. They despise one another even more than when I first met them, but neither division can operate without the other; the business model of the Outfit is to generate income by usury, coercion, intimidation, and violence (Muscle), and of course, those brutal enforcers have to be paid for their work (Money). In the end, no one in the Outfit ever wants to concede an inch, or compromise, or make peace, and without ghiaccio furioso, no one would. My use of cold fury in settling disputes is of utmost importance since it gets business back on track, allows tainted profits to keep rolling in, and keeps the Outfit alive. I hate every vile moment of my role, and my loathing of the organization grows with each decision I make.

  The problem is, I’m good at it.

  I have no idea how my great-grandpa, grandpa, or dad ran a sit-down. But by trial and error, I devised a method based on a combination of movie courtroom scenes, debate club, and the “I’m counting to three” form of discipline used by my parents on me and Lou when we were little, as in “I’m giving you until three to put away your toys. One . . . two . . .” with the third digit holding the threat of punishment. In my case, Outfit goons have come to understand that by “three,” I’ll have grown angry enough that my blue eyes will start blinking, followed by the swift deployment of cold fury. Sometimes, the risk that they will be emotionally paralyzed into making a concession is enough to start a reasonable dialogue. But more often than not, I have to show them their worst fears, the ones that wake them in the middle of night with the type of dread that feels like drowning in motor oil—lungs clogged, hearts about to detonate—and then I make the decision for them. Certain things in the Outfit are sacred—money, the veneration of Al Capone, money, more money, and the role of counselor-at-large. They don’t like that I’m a woman, and sometimes I can feel their hatred of me—but without a Rispoli as counselor-at-large, there’s no them, no Outfit. I help those shadow people to live their double lives, secretly and profitably.

  As much as I’m convinced of Outfit alternate identities, I believe the phenomenon exists in the general population as well.

  How else to explain what Doug discovered on Friendbook? What other explanation could there possibly be for the participants on the Mister Kreamy Kone fan page? It was the same day Max had taken me to Rome. Even as he’d asserted his right to meet my family (how in the world could I weasel my way out of that?), I’d been thinking about the note Doug had left me and what he’d discovered. I’d hurried back to the Bird Cage Club after leaving Max, but the only thing waiting for me was another one written in the same hurried scrawl:

  Harry and I ran an errand. No peeking at my computer!

  Kisses—

  D. Stuffins,

  at your service

  By the time he and Harry returned, I was a sweaty mess. I’d been so impatient that I’d had to work off pent-up energy on the heavy bag. I was unwinding the wraps from my hands when Doug entered, pulled the silver ice cream cone from his pocket, held it to the light so it glinted, and said proudly, “La Plata.” I looked from his plump grin to Harry’s dog smile, complete with little pointed tongue and wagging tail.

  “Huh?” I said.

  “The sixth-largest city in Argentina. Where this thing was made. It literally means ‘silver,’” he said. “I took it down to Jeweler’s Row and went store to store until some old guy who specializes in precious metals identified it.” He turned it on his palm, showing the inside. “See the letters inscribed below the edge?” I squinted at a tiny L P, AR. “It stands for La Plata, Argentina. The city has a tradition of silversmithing or smithery, or whatever you call it.”

  I took it from him and inspected it. “So where does that leave us?”

  “La Plata,” he said with a shrug. “It’s an Argentinian connection.”

  “Vague.”

  “At best,” he said, and grinned. “So let’s switch to specifics. How about a weirdo calling herself ‘Ice Queen’ who loves-loves-loves Mister Kreamy Kone!” He led me to his laptop, logged into Friendbook, and pulled up a page bearing a corporate logo—a glossy black ice cream truck with MISTER KREAMY KONE beneath it, and a wall filled with effusive commentary. There was nothing else on the page—no information about the company or its elusive whereabouts, no pictures of the freaky fans, and no further discussion. All it told me was that 1,686 people liked it, followed by lines of oddly glowing pronouncements about their beloved MKK—Mister Kreamy Kone. Reading on, I encountered words like miraculous, unbelievable, and astonishing.

  “A little over the top about ice cream, aren’t they?”

  “Tell me about it. Check this out,” Doug said, scrolling down the page, tracing his finger on words. “There’s a phrase here, here, and here . . . it appears in a lot of the comments, right to the end.”

  I looked at where he was pointing. “‘Life-saving’? It sounds more like a support group than a bunch of people who like ice cream.”

  “No one has to tell me about the commitment a junk-food junkie makes to his favorite shit. Munchitos and I have a very meaningful relationship,” he said. “But these people are beyond that . . . the term fetishistic comes to mind. They actually get together just to eat ice cream. See?” and he pointed at the screen, which read:

  MeltMyHeart: Calling all MKK fans—it’s on! S-C Party next Fri. nite!

  DoubleDip: It’s about time! Ur a lifesaver! I need me some S-C!

  SuperScooper: When/where? Can I bring newbies?

  MeltMyHeart: All are welcome, especially new MKK recruits! 8:00 p.m. on the North Side, near . . .

  “What’s S-C?” I said.

  Doug shrugged. “Seriously Crazy? These people are freaks, I tell you.”

  I stared at the address on the screen, knowing there could be a connection that would lead me to the Mister Kreamy Kone headquarters. “I have to go to that party,” I murmured.

  “Are you nuts? What if that mutant Teardrop is lurking around?” he said. “Nope, I already made up my mind. I’m going.”

  “I won’t let you do that. It could be dangerous.”

  “Sara Jane,” he said, swiveling in his chair, “I need to go. It’s important that I’m a real part of this thing . . . a genuine help to you rather than the geek behind the screen. No one will even notice me. If these people are as into ice cream as they seem, I’ll be just another fatty. And if there’s something to learn, I’ll pick it up. Trust me.”

  I looked at the earnestness in his eyes—basically, he was begging to put himself in harm’s way for me. There was no way to refuse, and I said, “I do. I trust you, Doug.”

  “Fine, it’s settled,” he said. “Yay, I actually have plans for Friday night.”

  I did too—a sit-down with Knuckles Battuta and a pair of his thugs. The two animals had argued over the best method to beat a gambling debt out of a late-payer—one preferred a Brick Job, while the other insisted that tossing the guy down a flight of stairs would do—and the disagreement grew until guns were drawn. The bad blood between the two enforcers had continued to flow until it was time for me (and cold fury) to intervene. Knuckles demanded peaceful coexistence, which meant productivity, which meant profits—how could he be expected to earn if his own guys were pointing guns at each other instead of at mopes who owed the Outfit money?

  The week flew past, and on Friday evening, Doug and I went our separate ways, him to the mysterious S-C Party, and me to the sit-down with Knuckles. He’d suggested Club Molasses as a meeting place, located deep beneath my family’s bakery, which filled me with dread. I’d been purposely avoiding the place—seeing it so empty of life kick-started the type of depression I
’d learned to avoid for my own mental well-being. In fact, I’d been careful to regularly update Knuckles on my dad’s illness, telling him that it was even more serious than we’d known, and that the bakery would be closed indefinitely. I made sure to include relevant details—how my dad couldn’t have visitors, how my mom was his sole caretaker, which was why she was never around, and how, besides school, Lou was always at my dad’s bedside—weaving the kind of tale that would deflect suspicion.

  Except it had the opposite effect.

  Knuckles could not have succeeded to a ripe old age in the Outfit without being skeptical of everyone and everything, and I knew he harbored doubts about my story. My saving grace so far was that I’d done well as counselor-at-large. Business was booming, and it was strictly against generations of Outfit protocol to make problems when the money was flowing. Still, it was a myth that everyone in the Outfit watched one another’s backs, like some kind of fraternal organization. The truth was that each hoodlum was loyal only to himself and his bank account. I wondered if he was testing me by insisting on Club Molasses for the sit-down. My own suspicion was a defensive skill that I, too, was developing as a member of the Outfit. Knuckles was teaching me by example that every crook had more than one motive.

  And then he taught me something else.

  I was waiting in the alley, dressed as usual for a sit-down in an outfit put together by Doug—black skirt and boots, white top, my dark hair pulled back. Doug’s inspiration was Loretta from the film Moonstruck, who, as he reminded me, was “An Italian-American bookkeeper, beautiful but all about business, emotionally stunted by loss, with no time for love.” I was thinking about that term emotionally stunted when I remembered Knuckles’s Scamp—there was no way the huge old man would be able to fold himself and his motorized wheelchair into the Vulcan. When I discovered the small elevator hidden inside the bakery’s industrial oven, even I had trouble fitting inside. Just then, his pink-and-blue van with BABYLAND—FOR YOUR PRECIOUS BUNDLE, WITHOUT SPENDING A BUNDLE emblazoned on the side rumbled to a stop. Knuckles unloaded himself, snapped a lighter, and put fire to a crusty cigar. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he said, and buzzed straight for the bakery’s alley wall. For as long as I could remember, a metal box had been attached there, stamped with the ominous warning DANGER—LIVE ELECTRICAL CONNECTION—DO NOT TOUCH!, along with an image of a tiny person getting zapped. It was held fast by a rusty padlock. “Well?” he said. “Got the key?”