“They can have it,” I said. “I’ll give it to them now, today, if they’ll let you all go.”
He gazed down at the ground again. “They don’t want it.”
That stopped me. The notebook was a deadly burden but also my single strongest edge-my sole bargaining chip in a twisted reality where all lives had prices on them-and now it was worthless. “What do they want?” I asked.
Lou touched my forehead lightly. “What you have. What dad has.”
“Ghiaccio furioso,” I said slowly. “What you don’t have.”
“They don’t know that yet. That’s why I’ve been here, waiting for you every Sunday for a month. It became too dangerous. This was my last try.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either, exactly. I think they think ghiaccio furioso can control other things besides people. I saw the screen of the computer I was attached to. . it looked like something medical, like a diagram of a brain or something. I don’t know what they’ve gotten from Dad, but they’ve gotten nothing from me, and pretty soon they’re going to realize that they never will. And then they’ll want you.” My brother looked at me impassively and said, “Run, Sara Jane. Run far away from Chicago. Leave, and don’t look back.”
“Never.”
“They know you exist, of course, but it’s as if it hasn’t occurred to them that a girl can possess ghiaccio furioso,” he said, looking absently down at the ground far below. “They assumed it was me because I’m a boy and I have blue eyes. But they’ll figure it out soon enough and by then you have to be gone.”
“No,” I said. “I’ve still got the notebook. Whatever’s in there, I’ll find it and I’ll use it. I swear to God, Lou, I won’t stop until you’re free.”
“It’s not. . possible,” he said, his gaze widening.
“It is. It is possible,” I said. “You have to trust me.”
Lou pointed past me and shuddered. “Down there. Tell me it’s not real.”
A Ferris wheel is like a wagon wheel, its center held in place by spokes, and I turned and looked down at Poor Kevin inching up the one beneath our gondola. He climbed quickly, like a plaid, mad Spider-Man, and although his face was masked, I could tell he was grinning. There was no time to do anything but shove my little brother behind me as Poor Kevin pulled himself toward the gondola-we were halfway to the top and it swung wildly under his weight until he was inside. The metal car was built to hold six people, and he filled the entire space with the smell of rancid meat while wagging his finger at me. “You, you, you!” he squealed, and I felt Lou cower against me as Poor Kevin said, “Rodents and Ferraris and Ferris wheels. . you’re just all over the map, aren’t you? And lookie here, if it isn’t little brother! Aren’t you gonna say hello? What’s the matter. . rat got your tongue?”
I stared with ghiaccio furioso frigid and bubbling in my gut. “Stay back,” I hissed, but he repelled it, blinking it away while cracking his big knuckles.
“’Cause I’ll tell you something, a rat got part of mine!” he shrieked, and before he could touch us, I dropped to the floor and swept his ankles. He went down heavily on his back, the gondola careened wildly, and I knew it was all useless. The masked demon was my fate-he always had been, right from the beginning. Even as I fought on, I was having the type of sensory revelation that a person on her deathbed must experience seconds before she exits her body, knowing suddenly that it’s going to happen-I knew, too, even as he staggered to his feet and I peppered the evil sock puppet’s face with a flurry of rights and lefts and he took them like a giggling speed bag. I could hammer away all day, I could bite, kick, and run, but in the end he would grab my neck and squeeze me to death. And then something landed on top of us like a load of bricks. We all froze-Poor Kevin staring at the roof, me in a crouch, Lou against the wall. Poor Kevin stuck his ski mask over the edge, craning his neck this way and that, only for a pair of boots to kick him in the jaw so hard he flew across the gondola. The boots were followed by thick legs as another bulky man swung inside. “Uncle Buddy?”
“Geez, I really hate heights,” he said, his whole body shaking.
“You. . you jumped?”
“From the gondola above,” he said, with another violent shudder. “Don’t ever do something like that.”
Poor Kevin stood shaking his head like a wet dog, and when he looked up, his crazy eyes popped crazier through the ski mask holes. “You schlub!” he cried. “It’s really you, isn’t it? Buddy Roly-Poly Rispoli! Buddy More-Cannoli Rispoli!”
“Poor Kevin,” Uncle Buddy said with a sigh.
“Oh, how I’ve longed for the day when I could tear your arms from your body and beat you retarded with them!” Poor Kevin bleated. “I mean, more retarded! I dreamed about it when I was in the hospital!”
“You mean the nuthouse,” Uncle Buddy said.
“Nuthouse, loony bin, cracker shack, you name it, I escaped it, and now here we are, just me and the Rispoli three! It’s gonna be fun, like killing rats!” Poor Kevin squealed, breaking into a sick little jig.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered to Uncle Buddy.
“After you left the house, I picked up your trail and followed you,” he said grimly, staring at Poor Kevin. “I wanted that damn notebook so badly. It’s all I wanted. And then I saw him.”
“Buddy-Buddy, two-by-four, can’t fit through the bakery door!” Poor Kevin sang in his schoolmarm falsetto.
“My brother would never forgive me if I let him hurt you,” Uncle Buddy said. “And I could use some forgiveness.”
“Buddy-Buddy, two-by-four, I’ll use your ass to mop the floor!”
“Yeah, you mopped the floor, all right, you mutant!” Uncle Buddy barked. “And if it wasn’t done the way I wanted it done, I made you mop it again!”
Poor Kevin stopped dancing. In fact, it was first time that I ever saw him stand completely still. “Oh yeah, well. . you’re fat,” he said.
“What’s he doing?” Lou said. “He’s only making him madder.”
“Uncle Buddy,” I hissed, but he ignored me, moving carefully toward the door of the gondola.
“You rolled dough for shit, too, you know that?” Uncle Buddy said. “You screwed it up every time, and every time I had to go back and make it right.”
“Not. . every time,” Poor Kevin said.
“Absolutely the worst baker I ever met. . even worse than your old man! All the paisani on the block knew it, and they all laughed at you behind your back.”
“Not. . everyone,” Poor Kevin said, and he was moving again, his big body twitching under the plaid suit like it was crammed full of small, angry animals.
“Hey, kids, you know the only thing this freak ever baked that was worth a damn?” Uncle Buddy pointed at him and guffawed. “His face!”
Poor Kevin stood bristling, the ski mask moving on his neck like a bobble-head, and he shrieked like a pig in heat and charged. My uncle went into a crouch, and then at the last minute dropped to the floor and snagged Poor Kevin’s ankle. The freak stumbled to the door of the gondola and it popped open. He was half in, half out, making circles with his arms and squealing, and I couldn’t help myself-it was instinct-I grabbed him by the greasy suit coat and pulled him back inside.
“Sara Jane, no,” Uncle Buddy said slowly. “You shouldn’t have. .” But he didn’t finish his sentence because Poor Kevin kicked him in the mouth. Uncle Buddy rolled, spitting blood as the maniac tried to stomp his head, but Lou leaped from the wall, pushing him off balance. Poor Kevin backhanded my little brother, and he spun like a bleeding top into my arms. I set him gently on the bench and turned to my uncle, who was displaying his primary talent as a boxer, taking blow after blow from Poor Kevin that would have dropped a lesser man.
“Hey!” I screamed. Poor Kevin twisted his neck, and I broke the cardinal rule of boxing, sucker-punching him with everything I had.
The maniac’s neck twisted back and Uncle Buddy pounded him with a right.
When Poor
Kevin’s head came back into view, I threw my left hook so hard that it knocked the ski mask from his head. In that long moment, I gasped at the flaming red R pressed into the gooey meat-lump that was his face. He made a slow pirouette-revealing scars like old bacon across his throat, skin holes where there should have been ears, and two lidless eyes as black as burned tar-just before he went down. I saw the terrible disfigurement that had driven him insane, and for a split second, I felt more than a twinge of sympathy for Poor Kevin.
My uncle stood back as if it were all over, but I’d been in similar situations with the masked freak before. Our gondola was almost at the top of the arc, and I was warning him to be careful when Poor Kevin jumped to his feet, grabbed Uncle Buddy in a headlock, kicked open the door, and flipped him out. Uncle Buddy grabbed the edge of the gondola and held on with both hands, his feet bicycling air. Poor Kevin leaned on his knees looking down at him and shrieked, “Spring’s almost over and summer’s too damn hot. . but at least you’ll have a nice fall!”
“Sara. . Jane. .,” Uncle Buddy gasped.
“And don’t forget to look back! These two will be right behind you!”
“Sara Jane,” Uncle Buddy said, “now!”
I was about to break my promise to Willy.
There would be a stain on my soul, and I suddenly did not care in the least.
I got a running start and pushed Poor Kevin out the door.
There was the whoosh of his body as it was sucked into the sky, it was silent, and then the gondola creaked and tipped precariously. Someone screamed somewhere far below. We’d reached the very top of the Ferris wheel’s arc as I looked out at Poor Kevin holding on to Uncle Buddy’s ankles, both of them swaying like an enormous pendulum. I scrambled for my uncle, screaming, “Hold on! I’ll pull you up!”
“Oh yes, please do, hero girl!” Poor Kevin shrieked. “Because when he comes up, I come up! Pull me in, kick me out again, and I’ll just keep coming back! I’ll never stop and. . I. . mean. . never!”
Uncle Buddy looked at me with a decision already made, his eyes crystal clear as he said, “Tell your dad for me. . your mom. . tell them. .”
“Uncle Buddy! No!”
He didn’t make a sound as he let go.
Poor Kevin screamed like a girl all the way to the concrete.
It wasn’t a Mack truck, but it would do.
I pulled Lou to me, holding him tightly, feeling the Ferris wheel beginning its descent. He moved away slowly and looked over the edge, and I did too, at the crowd of ant people forming around the two twisted, leaking bodies. I saw Lou’s head move and I followed his gaze past the scene to the curb. Even from a hundred feet in the air I could hear the haunting jingle of the little black ice cream truck. Without looking at me, he said, “We have a friend inside, Sara Jane. One friend. She brought me here, and now she has to take me back.”
“No,” I said, feeling my chest cloud with tears. “Please.”
“Do you want me to tell Mom and Dad anything?” he said.
The relief that my family was alive was smothered by a deathly feeling of isolation-that I was not yet among them and no one was safe. “Tell them. . tell them that they shouldn’t have done this to us, goddamn it,” I said, with water springing from my eyes. “It’s their fault, all of it, because they didn’t tell us anything. . they didn’t warn us, or tell us who we really are. And please, Lou. . please. . tell them that I love them.” My brother nodded, and maybe it was what had been done to him with the wires, or maybe because he was only twelve years old and it was all too much for him, but besides a bleeding nose, his face remained as pale and impassive as it had been since we met. Sirens cut the air and I saw how near to the ground we were. “Don’t give up on me,” I said. “Whatever happens, I’m going to save you. Remember. . I have the notebook.”
The Ferris wheel was twenty feet from the ground, then five feet, and then Lou blinked as if seeing me for the first time. The corner of his mouth rose in a small smile and he extended a pinkie. “All or nothing,” he said quietly. “Right?”
I hooked mine with his and said, “All or nothing,” and felt him slip something into my hand. It was cold and hard, and I stared down at my mom’s gold signet ring with the Rispoli R winking up from sharp little diamonds. When I looked up, Lou was gone. The door swung lazily and I leaped free of the gondola, cutting quickly through the crowd before any badges or uniforms reached me. When I was far enough away, I stopped and looked for my brother, but it was as if he never existed.
Except that he did.
My mom, my dad-they all existed in this time, somewhere in this town full of secrets and lies.
To be alive is sometimes to kill and I knew now that I was capable of it, and so much more.
25
I am convinced that there are other types of Capone Doors all over the world-secret black holes where people exit one life and enter another and, when the time’s right, reappear somewhere else. Some of these doors possess an actual physical form, like the ones I travel throughout Chicago, while others may be legal loopholes, or cracks in the system, or unenforced laws. For example, the notebook outlines several simple methods for obtaining false ID documents-birth certificates, social security cards, driver’s licenses, passports, even library cards-and in effect, these are Capone Doors too, since they allow a person to travel through the world undercover.
The notebook contains a phone number that was answered at police headquarters.
I said, “J. Edgar Hoover wore women’s underwear.”
There was a pause, then a voice asked what I needed.
I told him, computer keys clicked, and he muttered a meeting place.
I knew him by his lunch-he told me to look for a guy in Daley Plaza near the Picasso eating peanut butter from a jar. He was a classic mole, a bland-looking Outfit lifer who had burrowed into the police department as a records clerk with access to the department’s vast computer network full of information about everything. No, he explained, there was no record whatsoever of a Chicago police detective named Dorothy Smelt. I told him other cops had worked for her, someone must know something, and he paused, working peanut butter from the roof of his mouth, and lowered a hand slowly in front of his face from his forehead to his chin, as if lowering a curtain. I have since come to understand that in the secret sign language of police, it means no one knows anything, no one saw anything, and no one will say anything, ever.
So Elzy was gone.
She’d exited her life as Detective Smelt through her own Capone Door.
My gut told me that eventually she would reenter through another door, as another person, but with the same twisted ambition to control the Outfit.
She was correct about one thing-I believe that in the twenty-first century, it would be impossible to do that without the notebook.
The official story is that the Outfit is weak, broken, and on its last legs after a long series of trials and convictions. The fact that most people believe this fantasy goes to show how well the Outfit has learned, in a hundred years of existence, to protect itself in a chameleonlike fashion by becoming invisible. The open displays of its existence-think Al Capone driving a Rolls-Royce convertible down State Street smoking hundred-dollar cigars and giving nickels to orphans-are so long gone, it’s like they never happened. The organization has wormed its way so deep into legitimate businesses that every time someone orders a latte with extra foam or downloads a movie or upgrades a phone, the Outfit gets its cut. Yes, there are still plenty of limo companies and cement companies and “gentlemen’s clubs” where the management uses “dem” and “dose” in daily conversation, but in general, the public accepts the bullshit that the Outfit has shrunk so small as to be almost nonexistent.
And then, out of nowhere, a headless, handless body stabbed sixty-six times will bob to the top of the Sanitary Canal.
A judge will commit suicide, and six hundred thousand dollars in cash will be found hidden in a shoe box under his bed.
There w
ill be a long weekend of South Side shootings, which Chicagoans will dismiss as “drug-related gang activity” without realizing who’s actually selling the drugs, and how they use modern street gangs as their sales force.
Only the notebook explains how to access and utilize all of the forces of the Outfit. It contains the past and present of the snaking, unseen organization, and in doing so, lays out a blueprint for its future. Most important, it makes crystal clear that the Outfit is a heartless, soulless business-not a family or a club but pure, grinding commerce-and that the Boss of Bosses, the old man referred to only as Lucky, demands that every single day is business as usual. As Knuckles recently told me, my real job as counselor-at-large is not peacemaker but profit maker, since conflict, infighting, and turf wars serve only to shut down the cash-making machine. He told me that I’m at the center of everything in the Outfit because its center is the almighty dollar.
Knuckles doesn’t know that my family has been taken away.
What I’ve seen and heard as counselor-at-large, and the fact that I’ve been left alone to do the job, leads me to believe that no one else in the Outfit does either.
They don’t know that behind the papered windows of the bakery and the sign that announces a renovation in progress, the place is still and empty.
They also don’t know that the notebook exists, or that I’ll use it to tear the whole rotten Outfit apart to get my family back.
In the meantime, I had to push myself forward to Fep Prep for final exams before school let out for the summer.
The first thing Max and I talked about on Monday was Bully the Kid, how bizarre the whole butt-kicking thing had been, and when he would be out of the hospital. We were in the theater room, waiting for Doug to show up with the movie, and Max took a long look at me and said, “You sparred recently, huh?”
I thought about Poor Kevin, about the melee in the gondola and about Uncle Buddy, and turned away, stifling a crying jag. When I was sure that it had passed, I said, “Yeah. A couple of times.”
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