by Shay Savage
They were at Tiffany’s earlier, picking out matching earrings to go with the bracelet.
Knowing Felisa is also acting as Rinaldo’s therapist doesn’t make it any easier. In fact, it just seems to lead me to try to psychoanalyze him. He has Lele. He loves her—I know this. He’s been head over heels for her since the day he met her, and that’s never changed.
So why is he doing this now? Did something change while I was gone?
I've been racking my brain about him, and it's led me to consider myself as well. I know I'm far worse than he is, but if Rinaldo can screw things up, how am I supposed to believe I can do better? I've never had a relationship that's lasted, but I thought Rinaldo's was different. I mean, I don't give a damn about the sex. It's just sex. But feelings? That's something else entirely. Doesn't he realize he's jeopardizing the one thing with real meaning in his life? He has to know that power can be taken away in a heartbeat—but love? No, nobody can just take that away.
I didn’t grow up in the business, and Rinaldo did. That doesn’t make me any less consumed by it now, but I didn’t start out that way. I’m not sure the way I started was any better, but it was definitely different.
I pace back and forth a bit. The wind shifts and brings the intoxicating smell of grilled meats from the steak and sushi place down the street. I’m hungry, and it’s almost enough to make me abandon my post.
I’m really not sure why I’m still standing out here in the cold. There isn’t any point. It’s not like I’m going to jump out at Rinaldo and yell “Boo!” when he emerges from the building. If he were to come out, I’d hide myself away quickly to make sure he doesn’t realize I’ve been following him. He wouldn’t be happy about that.
Rinaldo is right about one thing: I would never hurt him.
I also won’t allow him to hurt himself.
My phone rings, and I see Jonathan’s name on the screen.
“I got somethin’ you need to see,” he says immediately.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“You close to home? We could meet at your place.”
Well, I do need a reason to get out of here.
“Yeah, I’m nearby.”
“Be there in ten.” He hangs up.
Glancing once more at the building where I used to live, I head down the sidewalk to my current apartment and make my way to the elevator. I’m only home long enough to take a piss before Jonathan shows up.
“Like the new digs,” he says politely as he looks around the place.
“It’s all right.” I shrug as I look around. I really haven’t paid much attention to it. The only adjective I can use to describe it is empty.
I guess it suits me.
Jonathan pulls his laptop out of its bag, and I open the fridge and grab a bottle of water.
“Want one?” I ask.
“Sure.”
I toss Jonathan a bottle, and we head into the living room.
“I’ve had someone followin’ Beni,” Jonathan says as he sits down and opens his laptop. “See this guy?”
He pulls up a grainy photograph of Beni talking to a blond guy with broad shoulders. He’s decked out in a tan suit jacket and striped tie, and they’re both drinking from whiskey glasses in the back booth of a bar. I can’t tell which bar from the picture.
“Who is he?”
“Don’t know the name,” Jonathan says. “Not much of an accent, so can’t tell where he’s from. Might be from around here. Could also be from Seattle or something. I’m still checking him out, but look at this.”
He flips to a picture I’ve already seen—Marcello’s boys in a van, presumably with our guns, and possibly exchanging them for cash or heroin. The camera angle isn’t clear enough to know for sure, but every time I see the grainy picture, I feel like I should know one of the guys in it. Maybe it’s one of the Russians.
“Looks like the same guy, don’t it?”
I flip back and forth between the pictures. Neither is a clear shot, but there is definitely a resemblance. A tingle runs up my spine.
Where have I seen him before?
“So, what are you thinking?” I ask.
“Well, either Beni knows where the missing guns are, or he at least knows who’s got ‘em.” Jonathan sits back and pulls out a cigarette. “Don’t you have a balcony or somethin’ here?”
“No, this place doesn’t come with one.”
“Open a window? It’s too damn cold outside.”
I sigh and go over to the large window in the living room. It opens to pour in sounds of traffic from below and frigid wind from above.
“Smoke quick!”
“Sure thing, brotha.”
I go back to the laptop and flip back and forth between the pictures again, trying to make some sense of them. Beni is family and should be trusted before others, but there is definitely something off here. If the pictures are indeed of the same guy, and Beni is meeting with him, it’s not good.
I try to think of a reasonable explanation, but nothing comes to mind. Another thought strikes me though.
“Does this laptop get me into the accounting files?”
“Sure,” Jonathan replies. “Just get to the desktop. There’s a picture of a pig on the right side, near the bottom.”
“A pig?”
“Piggy bank!” He grins wildly, and I shake my head at him.
“You’re not right.”
“Never claimed to be.”
I open up a couple of files before I find the right one. It’s the same one Rinaldo showed me the other day—the one with the discrepancies. I’m not looking for anything going to Beni’s accounts though. Instead, I pull out my phone and check my notes.
It only takes a couple minutes of digging to find the right reference.
Some of the missing money is going straight into the account Rinaldo set up for Felisa. Some, but not all of it. He’s skimming his own profits and telling me not to look into it. I wonder what he told Becca about it.
Where is the rest going?
I scroll back to the year before when Justin was still looking after the books. As I’m trolling through the lines of numbers, a couple of them stand out. The name on the entries is Marshall Miller—a code name I’ve used in the past—and the lines should match up to what I was paid for my hits last year, but they don’t.
The numbers are way off, or I might not have noticed. This isn’t a little bit of a discrepancy, but tens of thousands of dollars for each line compared to the cash I had actually received. I start to search for a corresponding entry to make up the difference, but Jonathan calls over to me before I can find anything.
“Could he be doin’ his own investigatin’?” Jonathan asks as he finishes the cigarette and dumps the butt into his mostly empty bottle of water.
It takes me a second to realize Jonathan’s talking about Beni. I close out the accounting file and flip back to the photographs as he moves closer. I’m not ready to share the information related to Felisa.
“Possibly, but I seriously doubt it. He thinks he’s above that kind of work.”
“We need to show these to Rinaldo.” Jonathan sits back down on the couch and pulls the laptop closer to the edge of the coffee table.
“No,” I say as I shake my head, “not yet. Keep it between us for now. If Beni is involved in some way, he may not be on his own. I don’t want any speculation out just yet, or we could alert the wrong person.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Someone’s been pulling money from the business, too,” I tell him. “If Beni’s involved in that, he has to have help. I want all the evidence together before we take it to Rinaldo.”
“Don’t Becca keep track of that shit?”
“Yeah, she does.”
“Maybe she knows more about it?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “If she’s anywhere near as good at bookkeeping as Rinaldo thinks she is, she ought to be able to account for every penny. If she can’t, well, maybe we need to check her out mor
e closely, too.”
“I gotta get the warehouse security shit in order,” Jonathan tells me. “That’s gonna take a couple of days.”
“I think we have time.”
“I gotcha, brotha.” Jonathan closes the laptop and shoves it back in its bag. “I’ll let ya know what I find out.”
“Thanks for bringing this to me.”
“Always.”
Jonathan heads out the door, and I follow shortly after. I need to talk to Rinaldo. I need to understand what he’s planning and how much he already knows.
*****
“I was trying to call you.”
“My phone’s been on the fritz,” Rinaldo says as he takes off his coat and hangs it up on the rack near the door. He wipes his shoes on the rug before sitting down at his desk and leaning back with a big sigh.
The phone problems are bullshit. If Rinaldo’s phone wasn’t working properly, he’d have a new one within an hour. I know exactly why he hasn’t been answering, but I don’t let on. I want to get right into it, and the phone is just a distraction.
“Rinaldo, I looked into the skimming you told me about the other day.”
He looks at me without speaking, glancing from one of my eyes to the other. I try to remain expressionless.
“And?”
“And I think I know why you didn’t want me to look into it.”
I can see the tightening of his jaw as he clenches his teeth.
“Then you know it’s not worth bothering with,” he finally says. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes, sir, there is.” He sighs and then nods for me to continue. “There’s more missing than just what’s been transferred to that one account. Justin’s entries for my payments are way off, but I’m not sure where the money went. He probably thought I’d never be close enough to check.”
“He’s not the one skimming now.” Rinaldo’s forehead creases as he thinks. “I told Becca I would take care of it. I don’t need her sticking her nose into it right now.”
“What’s the big deal?” I ask. “Why don’t you just tell her it’s moving into Felisa’s account? Call it her therapist salary or whatever. What does Becca care? Then she could figure out what else is missing.”
“It was a bit of a test for her,” Rinaldo replies with a shrug. “I wanted to see if she would bring it to my attention.”
“And now that she has, you’re not going to have her pursue it? She’s going to become suspicious.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t think it through all the way. Besides, if it was Justin, the problem is already eliminated, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.” I’m not confident with the assessment.
The corners of his eyes tighten. He grips his fingers slightly around the pen on his desk, but he doesn’t have any intention of writing anything down. He chews on his lower lip nervously. He’s still hiding something from me.
I look into his eyes and feel my shoulders drop a little. I want to call him out on it, but I can’t bring myself to do so. I wish he would just come out and tell me, but I can see that he won’t.
Rinaldo looks at me for a minute and then drops his gaze to the desk and lets out a long breath. He taps the pen a few times before glancing at me and then looking at his watch.
“I have to get back,” he finally says. “I want you to focus on what happened to the guns, and let me deal with the skimming.”
“You said before you wanted me involved in all the businesses.” The reminder obviously doesn’t sit well with him.
His shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. I’m pushing it, and Rinaldo is known to have quite a temper. Of course, when it flares, I’m the one usually doling out the punishment. He looks straight at me, his eyes stern.
“Evan, go find my guns.” He leaves no room for additional conversation.
I nod and stand as he grabs his coat and walks out of the room, sans formalities. Like the obedient son, I head toward the only lead I have—a man I put in the hospital.
Harpy is indeed in a coma. He lies in a room with other unconscious patients, and I can watch him from the hallway through a large window. When the nurses are changing shifts, I sneak into the room and get a glance at his chart. It’s clear that the shock from his wounds hasn’t left him much of a chance. He’s off life support but completely nonresponsive.
I won’t get anything out of him, but I am a patient man when I need to be. Back in the hallway, I watch visitors come and go until I find one who might be useful.
She’s an older woman with a deeply wrinkled brown face. Her head is wrapped in a brightly colored decorative scarf. I watch her eyes focus on Harpy’s bed as she rubs a rosary clutched in her hands.
“It’s hard to see them like this,” I say kindly.
“It is, it is,” she replies. She smiles up at me with tears dotting the corners of her eyes. “He’s always been a troubled boy. I can’t say I’m surprised he’s here, but yes…very hard.”
“Your son?”
“Grandson.”
“My aunt.” I point to a woman in her fifties, hooked up to machines just beyond Harpy’s bed. “Car accident.”
“I’m so sorry.” She places her hand on my arm, her concern genuine. “On your mother or father’s side?”
“Mother’s.” It’s easy enough to make up a story on the spot. “Mom’s been gone a few years. Breast cancer. Aunt Betsy has pretty much looked after me since then.”
I let out a hollow laugh.
“Almost thirty, and I still need someone looking after me.” I shake my head.
“We all do, dear.” She pats my arm. “Would you like to pray with me?”
Well, that would be different.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, “I would.”
She places her hands over mine, and I can feel the beads from the rosary against my knuckles. She closes her eyes, and I do the same. After a moment of silence, she begins to pray.
“Dear Lord, please hear our plea. Our loved ones, Jimmy and Betsy, they need your help. We don’t know what you have planned for them, but we beg you to have mercy. They are loved and needed here in our lives.” She pauses for a moment and grips my hands tighter. “Please show us your grace, your forgiveness, and help these good doctors and nurses bring our loved ones back to us. In Jesus’ name.”
“Amen,” we say together.
She opens her eyes and tilts her head to smile up at me.
“Thank you,” she says as she releases my hands. “You have been a blessing to me today, but I have to return to work.”
“You’re welcome.” I’m sure I’m not truly counted in her list of blessings, but I rather hope she never realizes this.
“I’m going to light a candle in the chapel on the way out. I’ll light one for your Aunt Betsy, too.”
“She would appreciate that.” I touch her arm, and she walks away.
After a few minutes, I follow her out to the parking lot where she heads to the bus stop. I let her sit for a moment, then drive up close by and roll down my window.
“Can I give you a lift somewhere?”
She squints until I stick my head out the window a bit more so she can recognize me. She smiles broadly, nods, and gathers up her purse.
“The good Lord definitely sent you to me today!” she exclaims as I help her down into the low seat. “Those benches at the bus stops are not friendly to my back. What’s your name, young man?”
“Michael.”
“I’m Sonja, Michael dear. I think you truly are an angel!”
I grin and put the Camaro in gear. I ask her where she’s going, and she gives me directions to a seedy 7-Eleven a couple of miles from the hospital. As I drive, she tells me stories of Harpy—Jimmy, to her—as a child. Apparently, he started getting into trouble at a pretty early age.
“All he had done was bump his bicycle into this poor woman’s car. She wasn’t even angry about it, but he still lied through his teeth that he hadn’t done the deed. There was only a little scratch, and I d
on’t even think she wanted money for it. She only wanted him to admit what he had done and apologize, but not Jimmy. He never took responsibility for what he’d done.”
“I’m guessing he got into the wrong crowd as he got older.”
“That he did.” She bobs her head up and down. The colorful cloth slides down on her forehead a bit, and she reaches up to adjust it. “It’s so hard for the boys in this neighborhood not to get involved in the gangs. I wanted his mother to move farther north, but who can afford such places?”
“Not many.”
“Not many indeed!” She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I wanted to get out of Chicago altogether when I was a young woman, even moved to Gary for a short time, but when I found out I was about to have a little girl, I had to come home to my mama for help.”
She prattles on, and I try to ask questions that will give me some information I need, but she seems quite stuck on stories of the past, not the present. As I pull up to the parking lot of the 7-Eleven, she grumbles under her breath.
“Lord help me.”
I follow her eyes to a group of young men and older teenagers. They’re wearing orange bandanas and bracelets and seem quite content to hang at the corner by the ice machine and shove each other back and forth.
“Jimmy’s friends?”
“Friends!” she snorts. “That boy there—the one with the half-shaved head? He’s the one who dragged Jimmy into the gutter. Not that the boy didn’t go willingly, but all the same…”
Her voice trails off and she sighs. I exit and go around the front to help her out of the car.
“Thank you so much, Michael. You have truly brightened my day.”
“You are very welcome, Sonja. Take care of yourself.” I watch her head inside the convenience store.
Getting out of the Camaro isn’t a stealthy move on my part. As soon as I finish getting Sonja on her feet, I notice the gang members have stopped shoving each other and are now watching me. I meet the gaze of the half-shaved one.
He moves his hand to the back of his jeans. I know he’s going for a gun, but I also know he won’t use it. There’s a cop car parked a block down, and the guy certainly knows it. I nonchalantly pull a cigarette out and light it. Leaning against the side of the Camaro, I take a long drag and blow smoke in his direction.
