A Rose From The Executioner

by Edward Izzi

  Nobody kills like this anymore.

  Chapter Two

  Trattoria Pagliacci

  The valet from Trattoria Pagliacci on North Halsted opened the door of the black CTS Cadillac as Monsignor Kilbane handed him the keys. The traffic last December on that cold winter’s evening was hectic, as it was only a week before Christmas and everyone in Chicago was out finishing their Christmas shopping.

  Monsignor Kilbane was almost a half hour late for his dinner meeting with his longtime friend, whom he had known for many years and was hoping he hadn’t missed him. Anthony “Little Tony” DiMatteo and the Monsignor had been lifelong friends since their childhood, as they both grew up in the Bridgeport neighborhood two blocks away from Mayor Daley’s home. They always kept in touch and the Monsignor was involved in many DiMatteo family occasions, including baptisms, first communions, and confirmations. He even officiated over the wedding of DiMatteo’s oldest daughter a few years ago. The two close neighborhood friends went to the Nativity of Our Lord Catholic School together, had been the best of friends since the second grade. Their friendship never seemed to get in the way of their two very separate and completely different professions.

  Monsignor Joseph Kilbane was from a devoutly Irish Catholic family in Bridgeport. He was involved in some local gangs as a kid and got into some trouble with Tony as a teenager, before his family’s pastor, Fr. Patrick O’Malley interceded. The priest became his role model, and he graduated from DeLaSalle High School, in the upper part of his class. He then attended Notre Dame University, graduating magna cum laude, before attending Mundelein Seminary. He was ordained a priest in 1981 and had risen throughout the ranks of the Archdiocese of Chicago, from being an associate pastor of several Chicago parishes to becoming the administrative chief of staff and the second most powerful cleric in Chicago. Being the “Assistant Cardinal” within the Archdiocese required the business savvy of a corporate CFO, and Kilbane keenly oversaw all the fiscal and financial functions of the third largest diocese in the United States.

  “Little Tony” DiMatteo took a different path in life. He was a juvenile delinquent and had a ‘rap sheet’ by the time he was 13 years old. Despite his family being upper middle class and financially comfortable in the Bridgeport neighborhood, he chose to continuously get into trouble and hang around the wrong crowd. He was involved in several local robberies and was implicated in some local gang beatings and auto thefts. He was kicked out of Richards High School in the tenth grade for beating up and critically injuring one of his Math instructors. He then spent several years in the juvenile court system and ended up doing four years in Statesville for armed robbery and attempted murder.

  But it wasn’t until he joined the family business, that “Little Tony” gained his callous, ruthless reputation. The DiMatteo Tomato Company was a second-generation food distribution entity, handling the sales and shipment of produce to grocery stores all over the country from their giant warehouse on South Ashland Avenue. The DiMatteo’s were also infamous for their other family businesses; the largest bookmaking and loan sharking operation in the city. They also supplied a majority of the video poker games and slot machines throughout Chicagoland. Little Tony was well known and recognized by ‘Mob watchers’ and the FBI as being “The Capo” of all the Chicago crime organizations.

  DiMatteo ran a very successful operation from both sides of the law, having a vast array of ‘drivers’, or enforcers, who installed machines, made collections, and administrated “accounts receivables.” His drivers were Teamsters during the day, making deliveries of food and other produce to various grocery stores throughout the city. After hours, he had a select group of ‘enforcers’ of fifty or more men, who effectively did “whatever was necessary” to collect on all his receivables, both on and off the books. He had vast business interests, including investments in two Chicago area casinos, several restaurants, and various real estate developments throughout the city and suburbs. Chicago Crain’s had recently estimated his net worth to be in the billions.

  Little Tony liked this restaurant for the great food and ambiance, and he knew the chef-owner extremely well. He was always guaranteed the utmost discretion and privacy to conduct his meetings and private affairs, using the small VIP room located in the back of the restaurant. He never had to worry about the press, the feds, or any “wise-guy wannabee’s” interrupting him while he was there, as there was a separate entrance from the side of the building going directly to his private booth and table. Monsignor Kilbane had never been at this restaurant before, and it took him several minutes for him to find his way around to Little Tony’s private dining room.

  “Father Joe!” Little Tony excitedly exclaimed, as the two greeted and kissed each other on the cheek.

  “You look great Tony. You’re never going to get old.”

  At 63 years old, Little Tony was still fit and trim at five feet, five inches tall. Although his black raven hair had turned completely white over the years, he was still quite healthy for his age. He maintained a rigorous fitness schedule that included weight lifting and cardio five times a week. Little Tony arrived at his warehouse at four-thirty every morning and worked out in his personal gym in excess of two hours every day.

  “I wish I had your life!” Tony jokingly said. “Fr. Joe”, as Tony and his family liked to call him, was closer to six feet tall, average build, and his circular, wire rimmed glasses were his trade mark. Although he was the same age as Little Tony, the pressures of his pastoral career had accelerated his years, and he looked much older for his age. He had some health and heart issues in the past, and his facial wrinkles and balding hair was beginning to reveal the difficult stresses of his job running the Archdiocese of Chicago.

  The Monsignor ordered a Manhattan cocktail, while Little Tony was on his third Crown Royal on the Rocks.

  They continued to make small talk for almost an hour, and it wasn’t until their entrée’s had arrived before Fr. Joe finally ‘broke the ice’ to address the purpose for their meeting.

  “Tony, I need your help,” the Monsignor started as Little Tony listened intently. “The Archdiocese is broke.” he exclaimed. DiMatteo looked at him a little startled, as he was grasping the spoon to begin twirling his linguini and clam sauce.

  “Are you looking for a juice loan, Father?” he jokingly asked.

  “Frankly…no. I wish it were that easy.” The Monsignor then began to explain in detail his dilemma:

  “The Chicago Archdiocese has paid out over $200 million dollars in lawsuit settlements to abused recipients who were the victims of pedophile priests over the last twenty years. It has been the policy of the Archdiocese to pay these lawsuits from the church’s assets, rather than the weekly collections donated by parish parishioners. Because of the cost of these excessive lawsuits, we have exhausted most all our liquid assets and investments, and we can no longer make any more claims on our liability insurance coverage for such malicious settlements. We have even taken excessive, unsecured loans from the Vatican. We are now being forced to sell off assets.” Monsignor Kilbane took a break as he was sampling several bites of his chicken cacciatore.

  “So, the Archdiocese is having a garage sale?” Tony jokingly asked with his mouth full. He was having a difficult time believing that the Archdiocese of Chicago was close to being broke.

  “We cannot take out any more loans and leverage our churches and parishes and put the burden of these lawsuits on our parishioners in Chicago. We now have to find an alternative means to raising more money for the Archdiocese or we could end up like Boston, or Portland and other dioceses and be faced with a bankruptcy.” Kilbane explained.

  “Doesn’t sound like a bad option?” DiMatteo observed.

  “Well, technically, it is a bad option. The Archdiocese issued some bonds twenty years ago that were publicly traded and are now coming due. A Chapter Eleven would not effectively absolve all the church’s liabilities due to these excessive lawsuits, along with these bond redemptions. And with a
ll our real estate, all the land, churches and schools owned by the Archdiocese, any bankruptcy trustee would require us to sell it all off in a bankruptcy at “fire sale” prices. We’ve talked to several law firms and concluded that any bankruptcy or reorganization would not be a good option for the Archdiocese,” said the Monsignor.

  “Then the church doesn’t have too many alternatives,” Little Tony stated. He was enjoying his linguini so much at that point that he was barely paying attention to the conversation.

  “Well,” Kilbane continued. “We do have one option….” He was trying to make eye contact with Tony in between his pasta twirling and his fourth Crown Royal. DiMatteo stopped feeding his face just long enough make the Monsignor think he was interested in the conversation.

  “And what option is that, Joe?” as he took another long sip of his drink.

  “Many, many years ago, starting back in the 1970’s, the Archdiocese of Chicago started taking out and paying the premiums on life insurance policies that it took out on our defrocked and pedophile priests. We now have over $200 million dollars in life insurance policies on the lives of these old priests that are still around. Some of them are for five million dollars or more. Cardinal Brody and his successors had the intuition to realize the potential avalanche of lawsuits that was going to someday occur. The problem is, most of these term life policies expire when these insured ex-priests surpass the age of 80 years old. Quite frankly, although we have collected on a few insurance policies, we have many septuagenarian ex-priests who are close to attaining that age. I figure we have over seventy-five percent of these old ex-priests still around, and many of them are in good health.” Kilbane was explaining, noticing that his chicken cacciatore was starting to get cold.

  Little Tony had just finished polishing off his linguini and was starting to dip his bread in the clam sauce. He quickly put his head back into his ‘dog dish’, not taking a whole lot of interest in the Archdiocese’s financial problems. Several moments went by, as the two of them continued to eat in silence. Finally, Monsignor Kilbane said something that made Little Tony almost choke on his food.

  “Tony, I need a hit man.” he softly said, making sure no one was around.

  Little Tony DiMatteo stopped eating and looked at him intently, originally thinking that the Monsignor was joking. He stared at him for about three seconds, and then started to laugh at what he thought was a very stupid joke.

  “Tony, I’m serious. I need a hit man.” Fr. Joe said again.

  DiMatteo put his fork and bread down and looked at him again, wondering what was in his drink.

  “Joe, are you fucking nuts? What the ‘fon-goole’ are you going to do with a hit man?” he asked.

  “We don’t have many other options, Tony. We’ve been paying on these life insurance policies for years, and we can’t even collect on their cash surrender values anymore because we have used them to pay the outstanding premiums. Within the next three to five years, because of the age of these pedophile priests, most of these policies will expire.” The Monsignor explained, trying to convince Little Tony that he wasn’t crazy.

  DiMatteo wiped off his mouth with his napkin and smirked at Kilbane.

  “Joe, do you remember when we were kids at Nativity School back in Bridgeport?”

  “Yes, I fondly remember.”

  “Do you remember that crazy idea you had back in the eighth grade? To sneak into the girl’s locker room while the girls were taking showers after gym class?” he reminded Fr. Joe.

  “Yes,” Kilbane softly laughed. “We would have pulled it off if you didn’t chicken out.”

  DiMatteo took another long sip of his Crown Royal.

  “Well, you haven’t had another crazy idea like that again until now.” Tony continued his lecture.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you think you’re going to get a hit man to take out all these old pedophile priests and collect on these insurance policies without the coppers getting wise? You’re going to have every goddamn detective in the Chicago Police Department banging on the Cardinal’s front door.”

  “Would you rather we put up a ‘For Sale’ sign up in front of Holy Name Cathedral? Because that may be our next option.” Kilbane retorted.

  “Look Joe, you’re a damned priest. What ever happened to that ‘Thou Shall Not Kill’ commandment? Do you really want that on your conscience? I mean, come on, Joe. I’m a hood! I’m going to Hell anyways, so I’m going to enjoy myself while I’m here. But you? You’re a fucking priest.” Little Tony was preaching to the Monsignor.

  “Tony, I have seen firsthand what these pedophile priests have done to these abused children over the years. Do you know how many screwed up people there are out there who have turned to drugs, alcohol, and even suicide because of all these sick pedophile priests that the Archdiocese has protected over the years? No thanks to the Vatican! These sick, old ex-priests, who have raped and molested all of these children over the years, are now living their comfortable lives in peace, while their tormented victims are having a hard time living day to day, their innocence and young souls stolen from them at a very early age,” Kilbane angrily defended himself.

  Monsignor Joseph Francis Kilbane never made any secret of his contempt for pedophiles, and has always been very outspoken about the subject, especially those sexual deviants who entered the priesthood.

  “I don’t feel one bit of sympathy for any of these old, sick bastards.” Kilbane continued. “The Archdiocese has been carrying and protecting them long enough. It’s time to start eliminating these psychotic sons of a bitches. These are old, ex-priests who are going to rot in hell anyways. I’m just suggesting that we send them there a little sooner. We can use the insurance money to pay off their victims. The Roman Catholic Church should have never, ever protected these pedophiles.”

  Fr. Joe was starting to raise his voice, trying to get his point across. Little Tony looked at Kilbane intently, as he was starting to feel the effects of his fourth drink.

  “Oh, so now you’re an executioner, huh, Joe? When did you become so judgmental? ” he asked.

  Little Tony was starting to wonder if they were both role switching, with Kilbane playing the Mafia hood and DiMatteo pretending to be Father Flanagan. There were several more minutes of silence as the Monsignor continued to finish eating his meal.

  “Look Tony, you’re right. This is a crazy idea. I’m just so damned frustrated. Most of our problems within the Archdiocese are concerning the despicable sins that were created by these monsters. We should be using our money to feed the homeless and hungry families in the city, funding foster homes and city-wide food banks, not wasting our resources to pay off all these pedophile rape victims,” he valiantly said.

  By now, Little Tony had practically licked off his pasta dish and was swirling around the ice cubes in his Crown Royal. “Let’s pretend we didn’t have this conversation,” Tony said. “Besides, I don’t think the Archdiocese can afford my services,” he said with tongue in cheek.

  Fr. Joe started to broadly smile, taking the last few bites of his chicken entree’.

  “Really? And what is the going rate for knocking off an old ex-priest?” the Monsignor jokingly asked.

  “Fifty-percent, Joe. If we’re gonna start slicing up little old priests for the insurance money, I want half of the action.” Little Tony was grinning, knowing that his priest friend would never take such a deal. Kilbane started to laugh.

  “For fifty percent, I’ll knock them off myself!” The whole conversation between the two of them was turning into a dialog of humor and laughter, as they were both joking at the very thought of Fr. Joe’s ridiculously absurd request.

  “And how would you do that? Stab them with a sharp crucifix?” Tony was amused by Joe’s retort.

  “No, I wouldn’t have to work that hard.” Fr. Joe smiled.

  “Since most of these old guys are in their seventies, I would kidnap them and take them to a strip club, and then watch them die of heart attacks!”
The two of them started laughing hysterically.

  “Come on, Joe. That wouldn’t work. Do you know how much Viagra you would need? And what about the ones that don’t like girls? Now you really have a problem!” he jokingly added. The laughter between the two of them continued for several minutes, as their waiter finally brought them their check.

  Little Tony peeled off a couple of one hundred-dollar bills from his wade of currency and placed them inside the waiter’s billfold, without even looking at the bill. They both got up and acquired their coats, and then Little Tony began walking toward the restaurant’s side door exit.

  “Merry Christmas, Joe. I’ll tell Santa to put that sharp crucifix under your tree!” DiMatteo joked.

  “You do that, Tony. Don’t forget the Viagra!” they both laughed as he added, “Merry Christmas, my friend.”

  The two men kissed each other on the cheek, and then the ‘Capo’ got into his shiny, black Maserati and drove away on North Halsted Street. Monsignor Kilbane handed his ticket to the valet, feeling embarrassed of the favor he had requested from his old friend.

  He was grateful for Little Tony’s discretion and loyalty, and assumed that his crazy, foolish idea of hiring a hit man would never be brought up again.

  Or so he thought.

  Chapter Three

  Two Altar Boys

  It was a beautiful, sunny Saturday afternoon as Paulie Russo arrived at St. Rosalia Church for altar boy duty. His bicycle was making a squeaking noise and the chain needed some oil, as he pulled out the kickstand of his almost new Schwinn ride, with the shiny chrome monkey bars and white banana seat. He locked the front Wheel onto the bike rack, and then entered the church sacristy from the side entrance door. His friend, Joey Campisi, had already arrived early to serve Saturday afternoon mass on that warm summer day in 1964. Joey had brought along his transistor radio, and Paulie could hear the new Beatles song “Can’t Buy Me Love” playing loudly in the background. He was putting his black cassock on when Paulie walked in the door.