Blood on Blood

by Frank Zafiro

  “What? Working together?”

  “No. Jumping through hoops to the tune he’s whistling, even from the grave.”

  Jerzy gave me a long stare. His eyes were never hard to read when it came to compass points — mad, thoughtful, challenging, whatever. But looking for any kind of detail in those eyes was nearly impossible.

  Finally, he just shrugged himself and said, “Whatever. I do what I want to do. I don’t give a shit if it happens to be what someone else wants, too. They don’t matter. And that includes the old man.”

  Yeah, I thought. Except your voice gives you away.

  As much as my brother hated the old man, like I did, he idolized him, too.

  Standing on the train, swaying as it clacked its way down the track, I guess you could say that in my own way, I did, too.

  Speedo’s bar was as big a shithole as Jimmy’s apartment. Aside from the few stray dollars that must come in from the dregs of the boozers, I don’t think Speedo was any better off for having won possession of the bar. Hell, Jimmy probably makes more slinging parking stubs out at Comiskey. And he gets out in the sun for that.

  “I got this,” Jerzy told me as we came through the door. “I’m about fed up with this gimpy motherfucker, anyway.”

  Our good cop/psycho abusive cop routine worked pretty well on Jimmy, but Speedo was probably another matter. Jerzy had already visited him, so he didn’t really need the good cop.

  The bartender looked up once we were a few steps inside. “Aw, fuck. You again?”

  “Hello, Tommy,” Jerzy said, his voice smooth and deadly.

  Tommy the bartender didn’t look like any slouch. He was stocky, built like a fireplug, but Jerzy’s had forty pounds plus on him. His eyes were wary but calm. I put some space between Jerzy and I, just in case he had a gun under the bar.

  “Where’s your boss, buttfuck?” Jerzy asked, his polite tone contrasting with his choice of words.

  A little flare of anger flashed in Tommy’s eyes, but his only reaction was to clench his jaw slightly. “Speedo’s not here.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No bullshit. He’s gone home for the day.”

  Jerzy nodded like he believed him. Then he ambled up to the bar and took a seat. “Well, me and my brother here will have a drink and wait for him. Hit me with a double of Grandad’s. Neat.” He glanced over at me. “He’ll have a Roy Rogers.”

  Tommy’s expression softened slightly at the jibe. He poured Jerzy’s drink and slid it in front of him wordlessly. Then he looked over at me.

  I sat down several bar stools away. “Roy Rogers was a cowboy,” I said “and I’m a city boy.” I motioned at Jerzy’s glass. “Same as him.”

  Tommy poured and slid and said not a word. Jerzy watched and when I had my glass, he raised his own.

  “Na zdrowie.”

  I smiled. “Slainte.”

  He smiled back.

  We drank.

  Jerzy slammed his glass down on the bar, causing Tommy to jump a little. Jerzy’s grin turned cruel. The glint in his eye had a sadistic shade to it. He crooked a finger at Tommy and beckoned him close.

  Tommy leaned in. I could tell he didn’t want to, but he must have known it would have been a mistake not to. I half-expected Jerzy to jack him in the face with a sucker punch, but he didn’t. When he spoke, he sounded almost friendly.

  “The thing is, Tommy, I know you’re fuckin’ covering for your boss. I know he’s in the back room.”

  “He’s not.”

  Jerzy raised his hand to stop the protest. “I think it’s the stand up way to be, Tommy, my man. Anyone who dimes off his buddies or his boss that easy is a piece of dog shit, you ask me.”

  Tommy didn’t reply.

  “But,” Jerzy continued, “here’s the rub. We’re going to sit here and sip Granddad’s on the house, my brother and me, until that old, gimpy, fucking worthless whore’s son comes out of the back room. Or until I lose my patience and just head on back myself. Either way, I’m going to find him and then I’ll know you lied to me, Tommy.”

  Tommy eyed him carefully, but said nothing.

  “Then we got a problem,” Jerzy said. “As much as I admire a stand up guy, I fucking hate being lied to. I know, I know, the two things don’t seem to go together. But that’s me. I’m like that Sesame Street song about one of the things that don’t belong? Only all four belong, even though they’re different. What do they call that, Mick?”

  “A paradox,” I said.

  He snapped his fingers. “That’s it. A fucking paradox.” He turned back to the stocky bartender. “So Tommy, what that adds up to is that I’ll be so pissed that you lied to me that I’ll fuckin’ shoot you in the face until your own mother would swear she was looking at meatloaf and not her baby boy. And then, I’d tell some other guy in a bar in some other city over drinks what a stand up a guy you were. ‘Tough old bastard,’ I’ll tell my drinking buddy. ‘Held his ground and didn’t break. Definitely old school.’ And we’ll drink to your memory, Tommy. Cause that’s all you’ll fucking be. A memory. And nothing more.”

  I kept a straight face, but I had to admit I was impressed. Jerzy struck me as a one-trick pony. Bull in a china shop and that’s all. But here he was showing a different play.

  Tommy stared at Jerzy for a long while. Finally, he tossed the towel on the bar. “You’re right. He’s in the back. Second door. Same one you was in before.”

  “Thanks,” Jerzy said congenially.

  Tommy didn’t say a word. He walked to the corner of the bar, grabbed a light jacket and held it in the crook of his arm. “I fucking hate this place, anyway,” he said.

  Jerzy and I exchanged a glance. I couldn’t say I blamed him.

  Tommy the bartender walked out without another word. He didn’t bother looking back or locking up.

  Jerzy slid off his barstool. I realized he knew the whole time where Speedo was. He’d only played Tommy for the sport of it. To dominate another human being. To break him.

  And he was good at it.

  He headed down the hall, and I followed.

  Jerzy didn’t bother knocking on the office door. He jiggled the knob. When it didn’t give way, he simply booted the door open. It sprang open like it was going to come off its hinges. Inside the room, Speedo sat behind his desk, watching porn on a small TV. His eyes snapped to Jerzy and then to me as I followed him inside.

  “Put your pecker away,” Jerzy told him, “or I’ll be tempted to rip the little sprout right the fuck off.”

  “Wha-?” Speedo started to say, then cut himself off. He wriggled in his seat and pulled his pants back up to his waist.

  Jerzy stopped in front of the desk. “You are a fucking lying cunt, Speedo.”

  “How…how’s that?” He licked his lips and swallowed.

  Jesus, I thought. If he isn’t the guiltiest person I’ve ever seen, I don’t know who is.

  “Are you really going to fucking sit there with your pants unbuttoned and half a hard on and fucking lie to me?” Jerzy asked, his tone incredulous. He glanced over at the TV. “Is this gay porn?”

  “No!” Speedo protested.

  “Looks gay,” Jerzy said. Then he pushed the small TV off the desk with one massive paw. It crashed onto the floor. A small tendril of smoke rose in the air from the smashed pieces of the TV.

  “Hey, kid-” Speedo began, but Jerzy cut him off.

  “Don’t give me any of that kid shit,” he said. “I’m not a fucking kid and even if I was, I ain’t yours. What I am is the guy you laid some bullshit on a couple of days ago.” Jerzy grinned at him, but there was no humor in it, and no mercy that I could see. “And I don’t like being lied to. Especially by gimpy old rat fuck, bar stealing, big mouthed, gay porn watching pieces of donkey shit named Speedo.”

  “I-”

  Jerzy hit him so fast that even I didn’t see it coming. He had to lean across the desk to do it, but even so, he caught Speedo flush on the jaw with considerable force. The punch drove the
old guy back in his chair. The floor must have been smooth and the wheels well oiled, because he flew straight back, hit the wall and bounced forward. When he landed on his knees where his chair used to be, I could see his head was spinning.

  “Don’t you fucking get up,” Jerzy growled. “Because next time, I’ll put you through that wall.”

  Speedo took a moment to get his equilibrium back, then looked up to Jerzy. His expression was hard, but he kept both knees on the floor.

  Jerzy pulled out his gun and set it on the desk in front of him. “Tommy moved on to greener pastures,” he told Speedo. “So there ain’t a soul to hear this gunshot that gives even half a shit about you. That’s why I’m not going to bother with a silencer when I fucking kill you.”

  Speedo struggled to keep a game face on, but it was clear that Jerzy wasn’t kidding. Tears welled up in the old man’s eyes, but he kept his jaw set. He didn’t bother looking to me for mercy.

  “You’ve got one chance and one chance only to save your miserable shitty life,” Jerzy said. “You want that chance?”

  There was a pause, but then Speedo nodded slightly.

  “Good.” Jerzy picked up the gun and it disappeared under his light jacket. “We know you’re the double crossing asshole in this scenario, Speedo. Jimmy did time. Our old man lammed it. But you? You did just fine. Maybe you lost the jewelry, but you made out okay. So Jimmy and our pop have a score to settle with you. And seeing as how the old man ain’t here to collect on that debt, we will.”

  “What do you want?” Speedo croaked.

  “I just want to kill you,” Jerzy told him. Then he motioned toward me with his head. “But he wants to talk to you about some shit.”

  Speedo turned his attention to me. I stepped around to the side of the desk and leaned toward him. “It’s simple,” I said. “The cops got the necklace, but not the earrings. Where are the earrings?”

  I expected him to lie some more, so I was surprised when he just deflated. He reminded me of how done Jimmy was. Done with life, done with putting up a fight.

  “Your dad had ‘em,” he said, his voice empty.

  “I know that,” I lied. “Where’d he put them?”

  I expected him to say he didn’t know and then I’d have to turn Jerzy loose on him, but he surprised me again.

  “He’s got a safe deposit box,” Speedo whispered hoarsely.

  “Where?”

  “Bank of America. The one just south of North Avenue and Damen.”

  “Under what name?”

  “His name,” Speedo said.

  I thought about that a second, then looked over at Jerzy. “We’re his heirs. We should be able to access the account.”

  Jerzy nodded.

  “Nope,” Speedo said.

  We both looked at him. “Nope?” I repeated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s a password account. Anyone can access it, as long as you know the account holder’s name and the password.”

  Jerzy squinted. He looked over at me. “You ever hear of this shit?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t know a ton about banking. It didn’t sound too secure, but I guess it allowed someone to set up an account so that anyone else they wanted to get access could do it. “It’s not like someone is going to walk in and guess the password. That’d take forever.”

  “Yeah,” Speedo said. The word came out almost as a sigh.

  Jerzy’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been trying, haven’t you?”

  Speedo nodded, resigned. “Every Friday. The guy at the bank is convinced I’m Gar’s cousin and I just don’t have a good memory.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He shrugged. “Bankers aren’t the smartest motherfuckers on this planet, kid.”

  “So you don’t know the password?”

  “If I knew the password, I’d be in Barbados right now.”

  We all three fell silent for a few moments. I stared at Speedo. Best as I could figure, he was telling the truth. After a while, Jerzy pointed a thick finger at Speedo. “If I find out one thing you’ve told us today is a lie, I’ll come back here and finish this. You get me?”

  Speedo nodded. “I get it.”

  “I mean it,” Jerzy said. “I’ll take a week to kill you. I’ll take my fucking time.”

  “I said I get it.” Now he did sigh. “The account is there. If you know the password, the earrings are yours.”

  Jerzy nodded, then turned and left the office. I followed him.

  Outside the bar, he took a deep breath and let it out. “Whattaya think, Hero?”

  “He’s telling the truth.”

  “No shit. I mean about this account. What’s the password?”

  “I have no clue.”

  Jerzy scratched his cheek, contemplating. Then he said, “Look, I got some other business to take care of. Let’s think this through and figure out what password the old man might’ve used or who might know it. We can meet for breakfast and make a plan.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He pointed his meaty finger at me this time. “Don’t you go to that fucking bank without me.”

  “You, either.”

  He smiled. “As long as we both agree.”

  “We agree.”

  “Well, then I’ll see you tomorrow. There’s a diner a few blocks away from that bank. Piccolo’s or something like that. Get there early enough to get a corner booth.”

  I’ll get there when I get there, I thought, but I nodded.

  Jerzy nodded back. He turned on his heel and headed toward the train stop. I followed, but not too close.

  We were both thinking.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Jerzy

  By the time we get back to Union Station, it’s like four thirty in the afternoon already. Mick and I split up as soon we step off the train. He’s sick of me and I’m sure as hell sick of his ass.

  ”Hey,” he says.

  I’m already walking away and checking things out. It’s crowded as hell in here right now and I just want to get to the car.

  I stop and turn. “What?”

  “Nine o’clock at the diner, Piccolo’s or whatever it is? The diner, then we both go to the bank. Are we square on that?”

  “Christ, Hero. Yes, I got it, yes. Okay? So, see you then, huh?” I’m casually looking around but I got to get out of here now. Too many damn people.

  “Well, all right. Be thinking on that password, too.” He’s still giving me that prying cop look. I think he knows something else is going on with me and its driving him nuts not knowing what it is.

  “Yeah, okay, sweetheart. Love ya. Mean it.” I give him my best fuck you smile and walk away.

  I make my way to the station parking lot quickly. Once I get in the rental car, I realize I don’t have any solid plan until tomorrow morning. One thing’s for sure, though. I need to stay low, somewhere safe. I’m beat to shit after the last two days and need a place I can relax a little. The Hilton at O’Hare is supposed to be for the final jump off and I don’t want to waste it, but I’ll use it if I have to.

  First things first, though. I do a routine check of my gun, clip and the extra clip I always carry in my jacket. Then I pull out my cell phone. It’s been off since I met up with Mick and we did the ‘come to Jesus’ meetings with Speedo and Jimmy. Seven missed calls, four of them are numbers I don’t recognize, two from Patrik and one from Ania.

  The four numbers I don’t know didn’t leave any messages, just hang-ups, but those are messages in their own way. All are Chicago area codes and all are trouble. I never get that many calls in one afternoon. The Russians have got my number somehow.

  There are three voicemails though, two from Patrik and one from Ania.

  I give the stray people walking around the parking lot a quick glance. Look at parked cars, too. Nothing catches my eye.

  I start out with Patrik’s two voicemails.

  “My brat, it is me. Hope you are okay. Call me, but only from your cell. We must meet and talk. There have b
een developments in our investment venture and you will need to deal strictly with our East Coast business.

  “Our competition is everywhere and they are focusing everything on three major marketing areas now; New York, New Jersey and Boston. They also have recently hired a former employee of ours. Despite all of this we are handling things well. They are making bad decisions, acting without strategy.

  “I have sent my Tato and some others on a well deserved vacation and they are fine. Business is good but it is a very busy time. Many needs and priorities but I think in the end, we will have a good year.

  “I know you are very busy, too, but call me soon. As soon as you can, eh?”

  His voice sounded bad, like he had aged ten years. Tired, worried and stressed, big time.

  The next message from him, that came in an hour later was shorter and to the point.

  “Don’t call me. Instead, meet me at my Uncle’s house where we used to skip school all the time. I think you will remember this house well, because you will remember Brygida, eh?”

  I heard him give a sigh and then a quiet laugh.

  “It must be tonight at seven thirty, sharp. In the last few days there have been many personnel changes. Some have gone on to work elsewhere and some others have taken an early retirement. Talk only to me and if I’m not there, leave.”

  Patrik is getting pretty good at this coded language bullshit. I think he’s worried about the Feds with their little wiretaps too. I delete both of his voicemails and look slowly around the garage again. There is absolutely nothing going on out there, just a bunch of assholes walking around. I gotta get going though. It’s just one of those gut feelings I get and I always listen to my gut.

  His uncle Teodor’s house had been the place we always used to meet up, once upon a time. Patrik’s uncle and aunt worked full time all day, every day, and Patrik had a key. It was a little row house in Wicker Park and we had the place all to ourselves during the day. Well, us and the older girl who lived next door. She was like eighteen or some shit and we had been, what? Maybe fourteen, fifteen at most? She was the first for me and it hadn’t been just a one-time thing, you know? So, oh yeah, I remember Brygida.