Pale and shaky, Centanni emerged from a nearby room and flourished a hand. “Per favore, the boss wants to see everybody.” Sweating profusely beneath his armpits, Mickey gave his partner a dreadful yellow eyeful. My erstwhile fiancé woefully shook his head. Ratmeat was merely resigned. Their fate was in the hands of their one and only god, Joey Arezzo.
We filed inside the legendary audience room where Arezzo conducted most of his business. The seat of power lay here, in a salon as big as a throne room and furnished with all manner of luxurious accouterments. A priceless art collection, King Arthur round table, fanciful cathedra, stained-glass windows, and lavish entertainment center. Future livelihoods and ruination—or on occasion the demise of colleagues, partners, and foes—were decided in this room. Orders were handed out like sweet chocolates laced with arsenic, to be obeyed without inner murmuring. The consequences were so dire that no one disobeyed, or if they did, never were heard from again.
The wise guys stood at parade rest, feet spaced at shoulder width and hands locked at the small of their backs, glancing neither left nor right but focusing on an invisible spot on the far wall. If Arezzo were displeased with anything they had done—or left undone—they didn’t want to see the reddened look in his eyes or the subtle nod that indicated one or more would suffer excruciating pain, and possibly worse. They were sweating like candle wax.
With a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, Joseph ‘The Zipper’ Arezzo came around a massive mahogany desk inlaid with alligator skin. He spread out his arms and spoke directly to me. “So what do you have to say?”
The amused smile on his lips didn’t make anyone else happy, but I recognized it as the disarming charm he always had for friends and family. Family meant everything to him, including his family of hoods, underlings, and toadies. Like all men, he yearned for respect. Like other men—much fewer in number—he also wanted to be worshipped. If he wasn’t venerated, lavishly and often, he could get angry. Extremely angry. All it took was a single telltale look, and a man could be dead and buried within days if not hours. Or so the stories went. I remained skeptical. Hoodlums used marketing the same way the Ford Motor Company did. Neither always told the truth. Both embellished.
I threw out my arms. “Uncle Joey!”
He laughed as if someone had just told a dirty joke, wrapped me inside a bear hug, and left a kiss on each cheek. Then he affectionately pushed me back for a fatherly inspection. “How long has it been? No, don’t tell me. Too long. You should come to the house more often. With your father.” Arezzo only had to glance at Starr once for him to bark, “Mr. Munson. An icepack, if you please, for Mr. Starr.”
Mickey snapped to and marched off in search of the requested item.
“Mr. Starr, my apologies.” Arezzo reached out. Starr reacted to the forceful handshake with a painful grimace. “You’ll be sure to send the doctor bills to me.” Starr grunted again, teeth locked into a lopsided grin.
A knock sounded on the door. Johnson poked his head around.
“Ah, Johnson,” Arezzo said, beckoning him inside. “You remember Grenadine’s daughter.”
“Sure do.” Johnson kissed me on the cheek. “My apologies, Miss Iris. You too, Mr. Starr.” He jerked his head toward the button men. “These gentlemen have to brush up on a few things. I’ll make sure they do.” Upon noticing Elvis, he extended his hand.
“Elvis, this is Johnson,” I said, introducing them. “Johnson, Elvis Presley.”
“Where have I heard that name before?” Johnson said to himself, tapping his lips. “I remember now. You’re the fella who sings That’s All Right, Mama. Well what do you know. Thought you was colored.” Johnson slapped Elvis on the back. “Now I see you ain’t, I know you’re gonna be a big star. As big as Sinatra. Bigger.”
Arezzo cleared his throat.
Johnson tugged at the rim of his fedora. “Begging your pardon, Boss. Almost as big.”
Out of breath, Mickey hurried back with the ice pack and handed it to Starr. He shuffled a shoe and practically groveled, waiting for Starr to give him a sign that all was forgiven. Starr wasn’t in a forgiving mood. Paling whiter than his natural coloring, Mickey fell back and rejoined his partners. Neither Centanni nor Ratmeat had budged or uttered a peep since entering the study.
“The Boss,” Johnson said, glancing at the wise guys but speaking to me, “wants me to ease your mind, Princess.” Johnson had lost his folksy side and dialed up his mobster persona. His teeth smiled but his mouth didn’t.
Scared shitless and ready to run, the wise guys each took a step back in preparation for an about-face and a rapid retreat. Arezzo cleared his throat again. They froze, postures ramrod straight, eyes staring blankly ahead.
“What happened this morning?” Johnson said. “It’ll never happen again. If it does, the boys and me, we’ll go fifteen rounds, one on one, just to be fair. Whichever body parts they walk away with, they get to keep. Right, fellas?”
The wise guys stammered and stuttered.
Arezzo cleared his throat.
“Yes, Boss!” they barked in unison.
Arezzo checked with Starr and me to make sure we were satisfied. I was, but Starr, pressing the icepack to his jaw, held a grudge.
Mickey’s knees practically knocked. Centanni was about to faint dead away. Ratmeat held down bile.
With a nod, Starr grunted his approval.
“I appreciate your generosity, Mr. Starr. Don’t think I won’t find a way to repay you.” Now that face had been saved, even if it wasn’t Starr’s, Arezzo motioned us toward a circle of armchairs and sofas. A butler arrived with a tray of Bloody Marys. Starr’s came with a straw. The wise guys, knowing their places, remained rooted where they stood. After our first thirst-quenching sips, Uncle Joey said, “Just so you know, nobody in my organization lobotomized Dick Byrnes. Not that nobody considered it, understand. But when push came to shove, he was just a little guy. Wouldn’t have been worth antagonizing the mayor.”
“If the Feds found out about O’Hare,” I said, “wouldn’t—?”
He held up a finger. I snapped my mouth shut. “Your father knows how to write a contract. Enough said.”
“Then why was the dossier so important to your punks?”
Centanni broke rank. “You? Call me a punk? After everything we meant to each other?”
Arezzo held up a finger. My fiancé clammed up and stepped back, restoring his stoic expression.
“Recovering the dossier,” Arezzo said, “if such a dossier ever existed, was strictly a business arrangement made with a third party for an unspecified amount.”
“The mayor?”
“Jerry Moore has a reputation to protect, granted. But he’s incapable of murder.”
I opened my mouth to protest.
“Incapable. You don’t want me to say it twice.”
“And Kirk?” I asked.
“Out of the picture.”
Arezzo snapped his fingers and jerked his head. Centanni fetched a copy of the morning Daily Standard. The headline read, ALDERMAN KIRK DEAD.
I glared at Centanni.
“What?” Centanni thumbed his chest. “You think—?”
I started to say, “Notwithstanding your goons―”
“Goon me?” Mickey said. “Goon you!”
Arezzo blinked just once. Mickey stepped back into line. Centanni joined him.
“Nobody’s going to believe Johnny Kirk died of a heart attack in the delivery lane of the Midland Hotel.”
“People will believe what they want to believe,” Uncle Joey said.
“And the photos Kirk took at the Big Dive?”
“Don’t exist. Or if they did, might’ve been one of the reasons he had a fatal heart attack.”
“I see,” I said. Like it or not, my investigation had probably arrived at a dead end. “Looks like no one’s left to pin the murder wrap on. Except me, the Easter Bunny, and Pascal Pennyroyal.”
“Pennyroyal’s a stooge,” he said, and grudgingly added, �
�even if he is family.”
Feeling defeated, I finally had to acknowledge there’d be no story, no byline, no pat on the back for a job well done, no promotion to the investigative ranks, no Pulitzer Prize, and no respect from my colleagues. Just an ‘atta girl’ and an assignment to cover the annual Flower Show.
I was exhausted. I was achy. I was emotionally drained. I was ready to go home, take a long bubble bath, drown my sorrows in wine, and sleep three days straight. Afterwards, I didn’t know what I would do, but there were several possibilities. Buy a bus ticket. Get lost. Rob a bank. Bleach my hair. Quit my job. Jump into the river. Find a nice guy, get married, have kids. Or go back to writing obits. None of the alternatives sat well.
I don’t know whether Uncle Joey saw my disappointment or if he was merely protecting his personal interests, but he put an arm around my shoulders, walked me to the door, and said, “You want to find the murderer? Look for the man with the least to gain and the most to lose. Self-respect, love, or money, those’re the only reasons people resort to murder.”
“What about power? Revenge? Temporary insanity?”
“They come last.”
Leave it to Uncle Joey to give me a ray of sunshine. He chucked an encouraging finger under my chin and smiled. He’d always held a special affection for me, even though I begrudged him that affection knowing what friends and colleagues would think if they knew Arezzo wasn’t just my father’s employer but also my godfather. In Daddy’s study hung a photo of my christening. In it, my parents looked on as Joseph Arezzo held a squirming bundle of joy known as Iris Esther Rebecca Grenadine, third child of John and Grace Grenadine, her chubby body shrouded in a christening gown, and her big blue eyes staring up into the face of a man with straight white teeth, slick black hair, and a small pink scar stamping his brow like a comma.
Rumor had it that Al Capone put the scar there. Rumor also had it that Joey Arezzo had racked up more gangland executions than all his predecessors combined. And yet, as renowned as the Arezzo name was, a stranger seeing him walk down a Chicago street would never have guessed he was the king of hoods. They would have only seen a distinguished gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair, benign smile, and middle-aged paunch.
In the foyer, he gave me his usual lecture. “I meant what I said before. About seeing more of you. After all, you’re my goddaughter.”
The wise guys blanched and crossed themselves.
Arezzo narrowed his eyes at them. “Take Miss Grenadine and her party wherever they want to go.”
“Yes, Boss,” Centanni said, saluting. “Anything you say, Boss.”
“Wow, are you a pussy,” I said to Centanni as I swept past him. He colored fiercely but held his tongue as if his life depended on it. It did.
Chapter 39
RATMEAT PULLED UP to the County Morgue. Everyone piled out except Starr.
“Sick of viewing dead bodies?” I asked.
He cackled from the bottom of his throat, a rough “Ha, ha, ha” that wasn’t particularly mirthful. His eyes were glassy with fatigue and his skin had a sickly pallor. I wanted to tell him it was his own damned fault for hooking up with me, but we were in this together, might as well see it to the end.
I offered him a hand. “C’mon, big guy. You can do this.”
The roll of his eyes was the last bit of humor he’d impart for a good long while. The least facial expression brought on waves of agony and tears that came unbidden to his eyes. He used my hand to unfold himself from the back seat. In broad daylight, his complexion appeared greenish against the deepening purple of his jaw.
“Maybe you should see a doctor.”
The line of his mouth tightened, his face blanched a shade lighter, and he shook his head, gingerly but decisively. He was more afraid of doctors than dead bodies.
In the morgue, the coroner kept us waiting. We loitered just outside the autopsy room, each of us idling away the time by pacing, our shoes striking up a timpani of clicks and clacks on the scuffed linoleum floor. One of our membership, though, decided to pull up a seat on the floor, lean against the wall, fold his fedora over his eyes, and take a snooze. Starr snored lightly.
The stink of formaldehyde and other noxious odors emanating from behind the double doors was impossible to disguise even with liberal applications of disinfectants, cleaning solutions, and bleach.
A morgue was a temple of death, the place where white-robed priests used scalpels and bone saws to dissect the human body before sending it to its permanent resting place. In a way, this was the purgatory of legend, where those who met with violent deaths awaited the final verdict. The wise guys were particularly sensitive to the implications. If they continued living a life of crime, odds were high they’d wind up on one of these stainless-steel slabs with a Y sawed into their chests and their skull caps removed for examination. Maybe this experience would be their awakening. Maybe they would set aside their guns and find regular jobs that required a punch clock. Maybe I was a romantic, after all. At the end of the day, we all had our crosses to bear.
To break the uncomfortable silence, I asked them, “Exactly who told you I was Monica Seagraves?”
“La donna paffuto con il cappello grande,” Centanni said, gesturing big boobs and a large hat.
I grinned.
He punched the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Stupido.”
Dressed in surgical gown and cap, the coroner came out to greet us. “We meet again, Miss Grenadine. Starr.” He regarded the others.
Elvis held out his hand. “Elvis Presley, sir. Rock ‘n’ roller.”
“Ratmeat ... Clarence ... Cominsky. And my associates Armand Centanni and Mickey Munson with IBM.”
The coroner shook away his puzzlement and said, “Right. If you’ll come with me.”
Starr whispered in my ear, “IBM?”
“Italian businessmen.”
In the autopsy room, the coroner rolled out a drawer and exposed the corpulent remains of one Johnny Kirk, city alderman and ex-mobster. His face was smooth, his jowls flaccid, his complexion chalky, and his mouth expressionless. He looked peaceful. His earthly woes were over. He’d never again torch up, knock back, or dream on. I almost felt sorry for the bastard. “Cause of death?” I asked.
“Like Byrnes and the girl,” the doc said with resignation. “A .38-caliber bullet. This one ripped a hole through the trachea. He choked to death.”
“Then it wasn’t a heart attack.”
“In the strictest sense, since his heart gave out due to lack of oxygen.” Since it didn’t look good for an alderman to buy it in a back alley behind a ritzy hotel, and because one murder with ties to the mayor was bad enough but two murders would have brought City Hall to its knees, the mayor must have clamped down on the press once again.
Chapter 40
WE SWUNG PAST the Harmon House Hotel, retrieved Elvis’s bag, zipped out to the airport, and met up with Scotty, D.J., and Bill.
Out on the tarmac, we exchanged kisses and hugs before they climbed into the belly of the DC-7. Elvis lingered behind. After several awkward gestures and half-begun words of farewell, he made his move and did so with style, enfolding his arms around me and delivering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The kiss went on and on until I thought I’d faint from lack of oxygen. He lifted his lips away. An apologetic grin consumed his succulent mouth. He was gee-whizzing with Southern manners and shy ways. “I’ll never forget you, Iris Grenadine.” He gathered up his things, bounded up the stairs, and waved before disappearing through the cabin door.
I returned to consciousness with an aching sigh. Undoubted, he’d already forgotten me, but I would never forget him.
“Gree’ ’ith e’vy,” Starr pidgin-talked through his teeth.
I blew raspberries and marched back to the terminal. Starr, Centanni, Munson, and Ratmeat closed ranks around me.
“She doesn’t know the effect she has on us,” Ratmeat said.
“She toys with our feelings,” Centanni said.
“Get
off it,” Munson said. “She almost got us rubbed out.”
“And still could,” I said. That pretty much shut them up.
On the way back to the city, Munson polished his shotgun and Centanni stared at me like a lovesick puppy. Ratmeat agreed to drop me off at my apartment before running Starr home. I made them promise not to lay a finger, glove, or feather on him. I only had to say one word: Arezzo. They promised.
We ran into a traffic jam. It was stop and go. The rhythm was sleep inducing. Giving into exhaustion, I lowered my head onto Starr’s lap, curled up, and closed my eyes. He rested a hand on my shoulder, stretched out his long legs, and slung the fedora over his face. Since the Chrysler was equipped with an Airtemp cooling system, we were deliciously comfortable on one of the hottest days of summer.
Ratmeat pulled into a White Castle and went inside. When he climbed back into the limo, bringing along the appetizing odors of hamburgers and French fries, Starr tried to shake me awake.
I protested and fell back into a fitful slumber, dreaming about a day at the park with Daddy and my sisters. My mother wasn’t there. I was probably five or six. I remember falling off the swing and scraping my knee. I remember Daddy comforting me. I remember pulling away from his embrace and drying my eyes. It was a momentous decision in my life. At a tender age, I decided I didn’t need anybody.
Starr tried to shift into a more comfortable position without disturbing me, but I was a light sleeper, especially when lethal weapons were nearby. I sat up. Rubbed my eyes. Yawned. “Any sliders left?” Suddenly ravenous, I dug into the last four hamburgers and a bag of fries. “So who’s left as suspects?”
Starr grasped at straws, including the one he was sipping his Coca-Cola through. “Byrnes’s mother?”
Swelling forced him to drop several consonants and diphthongs, but even my sluggish brain could translate his utterances. “Mothers don’t snuff out their own sons.”
“Returning to your original theory.”
The Green-Eyed Dick Page 26
