by Al Roker
Ordinarily that would have prompted an eye roll. Instead, she smiled. The power of Richard.
“Where’s Dal?” I asked.
She returned to her notes. “He had to go. Said he’ll call you later.”
“Didn’t say where he was going?”
“Nope,” she replied.
I settled onto the campaign chair and dialed Dal’s number. He answered on the second ring.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I’m at the gallery,” he said. “Somebody broke in during the night. Doesn’t look like anything was taken. Mantata wants me to stick around here and help him go over the place. Make sure they didn’t leave a little surprise.”
“A bomb, you mean?”
“I was thinking a bug. A bomb? Jesus, you’re morbid. You finished there?”
“Let me find out.” I looked at Kiki. “Am I finished here?”
“Meeting at ten,” she said. “Then free as a bird.”
I passed that news on to Dal, telling him I’d call when the meeting wound down.
Since our ratings hadn’t had the surge our visits to Chicago had experienced in palmier days, it was less a meeting than an ass chewing. It lasted until after eleven, at which time I phoned Dal.
“Hiho’s gonna pick you up, Billy. He’ll be on the corner of Michigan and Randolph in fifteen minutes.”
I’d been looking for a big white Escalade. Hiho had to hit the horn of the sleek, maroon Nissan to get my attention.
“Zeke did a good job,” I said, buckling up on the passenger seat.
“Always does,” the diminutive Portuguese said.
He was dressed in tan. Tan suit, pointed tan suede shoes, tan-and-white checked shirt. And a chocolate velvet hat with a tan band. “See something funny?” he asked.
“No,” I said, squelching a grin.
Neither of us said another word for the rest of the drive.
The door at the rear of the gallery was locked. “When I left, was a guy here changing the lock,” Hiho said. “Guess we gotta go around to the front.”
As we circled the building, he added, “Gallery closed for the day. Mantata sent everybody home, except me and Dal. And the less-than-worthless guard.”
The front door was locked, too. A sign echoed Hiho’s comment about the gallery being closed. The security guard Dal had called Oakley was sitting at his desk near the glass door, staring at his cellular phone.
Hiho knocked on the door.
Oakley looked up, scowling. He stayed seated.
“Lout bastard,” Hiho shouted. “Get off yoah ass and open the fucking door.”
Begrudgingly, Oakley rose and walked toward us as slowly as if he were doing a Willie Best imitation. He unlocked the door, and Hiho pushed through it, nearly knocking the guard over.
“Little punk ass,” Oakley mumbled.
Hiho wheeled on him, a thin knife sliding from his cuff into his right hand. “I should gut you like a perch,” he said.
“Lose the blade, Hiho,” Dal ordered. He was standing near the door to the gallery’s display area.
Hiho hesitated briefly, then literally made the knife disappear up his sleeve. “Just wanted to show the clown who’s boss,” he said, strutting toward Dal.
“No way that little Karate Kid’s my boss,” Oakley mumbled.
If Hiho heard him, he didn’t react.
Mantata was obviously upset by the break-in.
His white hair was mussed, his lime-colored suit was in disarray, and his mood was testy. “I don’t like this,” he said. “It shows a lack of respect.”
“They came in the back door,” Dal said.
He and Hiho were sitting on the couch. I was on a chair beside Mantata’s desk.
“I didn’t see any damage to the door,” I said.
“There’s the rub,” Mantata said. “There was no sign of force, not even the scratch of a pick. The only conclusion is that somehow the intruders possessed a key.”
“Hell, boss,” Hiho said. “You never even gave me a key.”
“There are very few keys extant, which may help in identifying the Judas.”
“Oakley have a key?” Dal asked.
“He’s the kind of fucker who’d do it, boss,” Hiho chimed in.
Mantata raised one white eyebrow. “Do either of you have any substantive reason to think Oakley might be our traitor?”
“He’s got no class,” Hiho said. He hopped from his chair. “Lemme go get the bastard. We’ll sweat the truth out of him.”
“Sit!” Mantata commanded. “If by some chance Oakley is the culprit, it would be foolish to let him know he is suspect.”
“Friends close but enemies closer, huh?” Dal asked.
“Very good. Do you know the source of the quote?”
“Michael Corleone,” Dal replied, with a smirk.
“Perhaps. I would have thought Sun Tzu or Machiavelli,” Mantata said. “In any case, we shall keep an eye on Oakley.”
“It’s possible the intruder didn’t need a key,” I said. “There are lock guys who can open any door without leaving evidence.”
“It’s not just the lock. Only I know the code that turns off the alarm, but the violators knew enough about the system to disengage it by force. And they knew the locations of the security cameras. We have several views of the back of their heads, but not one identifying shot. However, the cameras do tell us that they entered at a little after three and left approximately forty-five minutes later.”
“How many?”
“Two. One short, one tall.”
“Could be the same two who killed Patton.”
“And tried to kill Billy and Patton’s assistant,” Dal said.
“Well, whoever they were, it will be difficult for them to return,” Mantata said. “The locks have already been changed.”
“There was no reason for them to be in any hurry, but they left after only forty-five minutes,” I said. “That seems to suggest mission accomplished. Is there anything missing?”
“Nothing, as best I can tell. Dal and I have found no evidence of bugs. A professional will be here shortly, to make sure.”
He stared at me. “Since the break-in has occurred during a period when my only … extraordinary activity is on your behalf, Billy, I am assuming that to be the reason. The one thing in the building that might add to their knowledge on that point was here in this office, apparently untouched.”
“What is it?”
He plucked something from the coffee table he used for a desk, a small, thin clear plastic box containing a mini-disk. “This digital recording of a conversation I had with Mr. James C. Yountz.”
“Pat Patton’s lawyer,” I said.
“I was curious about his client’s claim re Mr. Webber’s financing. Mr. Yountz assured me that it was not manufactured out of whole cloth. Mr. Patton told him he had proof that Onion City Entertainment was in part financed by Outfit money.”
“What was the proof?”
“Mr. Patton was not generous enough to provide him with that information. He thought that whatever it was might be in a bin Mr. Patton rented at Secombe’s Storage. The police were sifting through its contents, but, as Mr. Patton’s executor, he—Mr. Yountz—would get a look for himself when they were finished.”
“By then the police will probably have found whatever it was,” I said. “Unless someone removed it shortly after Patton’s murder.”
I told them about the red files that Nat Parkins and Larry Kelsto had removed from the storage bin.
“You’re sure Mr. Parkins actually possesses the files?” Mantata asked. When I nodded, he said, “Well, I assume he is still in need of cash. He’ll call you again. Unless he’s dead, of course. In which case, all is lost.”
I turned to Dal. “Anything new about the two guys you roughed up at Pastiche?”
“Trejean’s running down their addresses,” Dal said. “Heinz moved out of the one on his licenses four years ago. Killinek didn’t strike me as a long-term occ
upant, either. But you never know.”
“So your associate saw Derek Webber helping them to their car,” Mantata said. “I assume, Billy, you will no longer feel compelled to defend the man.”
“He’s too young to be Gio Polvere.”
Mantata’s eyes flickered to a Post-it on the table, then returned to me. “That is only significant if one believes in fantasies.”
I felt my face heating up. Maybe anger, maybe embarrassment.
“Can you think of any reason Derek Webber may want you dead?”
“No. There’s no past history. I just met the man two days ago. And I like him.”
The old man considered that and changed directions. “It’s nearing lunchtime,” he said, “and I’m feeling peckish.”
I glanced at the Post-it. There was just one word written on it: “flour.”
“I’m thinking a nice submarine sandwich,” Mantata said.
“I have a lunch date in about forty-five minutes,” I said.
“Not with Mr. Webber?”
“No. An ex–Trib reporter who’s written a book called Da Mare. His name is—”
“I am familiar with Mr. Mitry,” Mantata said.
Of course he was. Mitry had been a crime reporter, and he was currently writing a book on gangland Chicago.
“I am sure you will be the soul of discretion, should my name come up during your luncheon chat.”
“Absolutely. Mainly, I’ll be listening. Mitry says he knows a lot about Patton’s CPD history. He said Patton was taking bribes from Joe Nagall. And, as you told me, Venici worked for him.”
“Nagall,” the old man said and nodded. “Joe Ferriola, a very violent fellow. Very feared and respected.”
“Whoa. How did we get from Nagall to Ferriola?”
“The I-ties all used a variety of names. Joe Ferriola was Nagall’s real name. He was the boss of the Cicero crew.”
A variety of names.
Mantata was smiling, as if struck by a pleasant memory. “Joe was an enforcer for Momo.”
Momo. Sam Giancana. Mantata’s pal. The guy rumored to have won Chicago, and the election, for John Kennedy. But that wasn’t what was piquing my interest.
“Paul’s body was found in Cicero,” I said, “where Louis Venici worked for Ferriola. If these guys had several names …?”
He averted his eyes. “The records have Polvere dying in 1987. Ferriola died two years later. The thing the two men definitely have in common is that they’re both dead. As is everyone involved in Paul’s death, apparently.”
“Then why is somebody trying to kill me?”
Mantata shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Why did I think he was lying?
He turned to Hiho. “Pick up some sandwiches from Graziano’s. Just for you, Dal, and myself. Billy’s got a luncheon date.”
Hiho frowned. “The parking on Randolph …”
“Dal will go with and run in for the food.”
Dal replied with a you-really-want-me-to-be-your-lunch-boy? scowl of disappointment. But he obediently followed Hiho from the room.
As soon as they’d gone, Mantata said, “There’s something I’ve discovered about your good friend Mr. Webber.”
“I’d like to know more about Ferriola and the Cicero crew,” I said.
“There are times when the past has to bow to the present,” he said. “Did you know that Instapicks International is now located in Ireland?”
“I thought it was in Winnetka.”
“That’s where the work is done. But the company is registered in Dublin, where the tax rate is a mere twelve-point-five percent.”
“I saw something about this kind of thing on 60 Minutes. It’s an exploitation of a tax loophole.”
“Precisely. Business can be conducted here, but the money is overseas.”
“It is legal, right?” I asked.
“Absolutely.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
Mantata got to his feet. He seemed suddenly very old. He began gathering the scattered papers on the coffee table. “I’d better clear space for lunch,” he said.
“What exactly are you trying to tell me, Mantata?”
He paused and considered the question. “I can’t speak for people like Mr. Capone or Mr. Giancana as to why they chose to go against society’s grain. I did it because it seemed the only way to achieve anything in a country where all the doors were closed to me. I was smart enough to know that being smart wasn’t enough. I needed the power to gain the kind of freedom that allowed me to use my intelligence. There were many things I did of which I am not proud, but I achieved my goal.”
“You don’t have to—”
“This is not a confession, Billy. It’s an … admission. There was a time when a wave of my hand could get a candidate elected to mayor of this city. Now I’m a toothless old lion who can’t even keep the jackals from his cave.”
“It was just a break-in,” I said.
“It would have been, if they had not had a key and if the gallery was owned by an ordinary businessman. My point of this private chat, Billy, is that we’re dealing with people who are more powerful than I’d thought. In my arrogance, I assumed I could keep you safe. I no longer believe that. I suggest you employ a reliable security firm.”
“Dal seems to be handling the job,” I said.
He smiled. “We have arrived at a time in this country’s history when the real-life Monopoly game is heading toward its conclusion. The small group of ultra-rich winners has amassed nearly all of the property and money on the board. They can buy or destroy whomever they choose. Supreme Court justices, FBI agents, politicians, cops. Even presidents. When the cost of a gallon of gasoline is five dollars, men like Dal or Hiho or Trejean, no matter how loyal, will always have their price.”
“You think one of them is responsible for the break-in?”
“Someone I trusted was.”
“Maybe it’s your guard, Oakley,” I said.
“Though the others are not aware of it, Oakley is my great-nephew. He’s no work wizard, but he’s kept his nose clean and, according to my grandniece, he even goes to church on Sundays. I don’t see him selling me out, but, the times being what they are, all things are possible.”
“Well, Dal’s rescued me twice,” I said. “I’d just as soon stick with him.”
“It’s your decision, Billy,” he said. “But bear in mind: Dal, Trejean, Hiho, and I are all sociopaths.”
Chapter
THIRTY-NINE
Gemma Bright’s show had just ended when Hiho braked the Nissan Z near the entrance to WWBC. Leaving him to deal with the illegally parked car, I worked my way through the crowd of departing ladies. Each was lugging a copy of the massive Da Mare.
Willard Mitry was still onstage, getting de-miked. But it was another of the show’s guests who caught my eye: Adoree, engaged in conversation with Gemma and a woman with too much makeup whom I didn’t recognize.
Gemma, whose roving eyes covered more territory than radar, was the first to spot me. “Billy!” she exclaimed, waving me forward.
I suppose Mitry must have turned in my direction, but I wasn’t staring at him. Adoree was regarding me without expression.
“Adoree, you must meet Billy Blessing,” Gemma said.
“We’ve met,” Adoree said.
“Lovely of you to drop by, Billy,” Gemma said. “Oh, and this is Will—”
“Billy interviewed me this morning,” Mitry said.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to run,” Adoree said. Without waiting for a reply, she turned and began walking away, followed by the woman in excessive makeup.
“Give me a minute,” I said to Mitry and Gemma, and ran after them, catching up as they entered the greenroom.
“Adoree …,” I began.
She turned. “I’m in something of a rush, Billy.”
“I’m Candy Mott, with RDL Publicity, Chef Blessing,” the woman with Adoree said, extending her ha
nd. “We’re handling prepub on the film.”
“A pleasure,” I said, shaking her hand. “Could you give us a minute, Ms. Mott?”
“Not more than that,” she said, walking away. “We have a key luncheon.”
Momentarily alone, Adoree said, “Well, Billy?”
“Evidently I did something to upset you last night,” I said. “I wanted to apologize.”
“Fine,” she said. “Apology accepted.”
She turned to go.
“Wait. Clearly I’ve offended you, and I—”
“You disappeared last night,” she said. “I was disappointed when you did not return. But that was probably a good thing. I do not need to make any more mistakes with men of your type.”
“I didn’t return because …” I paused before I could get the lie out of my mouth. “Men of my type? What the heck are you talking about?”
“Of course you would deny it.”
“Deny what?” I realized I was shouting.
“You are a voleur. A thief.”
“I’m a chef. I feed people. I entertain people. I do not rob people.”
“Ah. Now, perhaps, you are a chef. Mais vous êtes dans les rues a faire ses combines.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“You were—how do you say?—a hustler on the streets.”
“Who told you this?”
“No one told me. I … overheard a discussion.”
“A discussion about me? At the dinner last night?”
“It does not matter when or where. Do you deny you were a criminel?”
I hesitated, then replied, “No. I won’t deny it.”
“Soit!”
“No. Not soit! It was more than twenty-five years ago. Adoree, it’s very important I know who was talking about my past.”
“Why, if they spoke the truth?”
“Because their knowledge of things I’ve done may mean they are criminals themselves.”
She smiled. “Now you are making fun of me.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “Do they know you overheard them?”
“I … I don’t believe so. They were helping one of the guests into a car in the garage. I was sitting in another car, awaiting … someone.”
“Listen to me. You must not let them know you overheard them. It could be dangerous for you.”
