Mandi Fishbaum and a posse of her tarted-up lookalikes passed by, hugging textbooks, giving me a did-you-buy-those-clothes-at-a-yard-sale look. I was flipping them off in my mind when Doug appeared and said, “I need to be institutionalized.”
“Pardon me?”
“That new security guard, the one who looks like a steroidal ape?” he said. “I was walking down the hall and the guy asked to see my school ID—”
“Like you said, he’s new. He doesn’t know every single kid here.”
“Of course, big deal, right? But the size of him, or that he appeared out nowhere . . . it scared the living crap out of me,” he said quietly. “I just . . . clammed up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I couldn’t say a word. My jaw was swinging and my tongue was flapping, but nothing came out, not a sound. I was terrified out of my mind even though I knew there was nothing to be terrified of.”
“It’s PAWS. A slight panic attack. You know that.”
He shook his head. “It didn’t feel slight. By the time I could actually speak, the guy thought I was crazy. I thought I was crazy.” He sighed. “Before I screwed myself up with Sec-C, I could sort of, you know, smart-ass my way through almost any situation. Now, I doubt myself all the time . . . who I am . . . and even with the weight loss, how I look . . .”
To be honest, I’d never gauged my friend in terms of physical appearance.
Beyond the fact that he was getting in better shape, Doug’s nose was straight and dotted with freckles in a good way, his skin was unblemished, and his eyes were lit with intelligence. The truth was that he was in an early stage of handsomeness.
“You look fine,” I said quietly, patting his back. “As far as the PAWS thing is concerned, you have to tough it through until it fades. No matter what happens, just keep moving forward. That’s the secret—”
“I know the secret!” a voice over the PA announced cheerfully. “Ralph Waldo Emerson, that greatest of teachers, said, and I quote: ‘The secret of education lies in respecting the student.’”
Doug and I paused, staring at each other.
The empty air crackled, and then the voice said, “Good morning, one and all! It’s your principal speaking . . .”
“Thumbs-Up,” I said, making the gesture.
“. . . but more important, your respecter in chief. I respect, support, and protect each of you, and you, in turn, must do the same for dear old Fep Prep,” he said. “For we are but a single organism, a student body, in which the sum of all parts make a whole . . .”
“A whole lot of freaks and geeks,” Doug said.
“. . . and if one of those parts fails, well then . . . you all fail.” Silence followed, as every kid in the building wondered if those words were meant in an academic or rhetorical context. Mr. Novak chuckled and said, “Kidding! I’m a kidder! But hear ye, hear ye, we have just enough time left in the semester to take action, and action we shall take. So beginning today, I’ll visit each and every homeroom to implement my new program. Drumroll, please . . . Fep Prep is us!”
“Yippee,” Doug said flatly.
“My first stop is Ms. Stein’s class. Rs through Ss . . .”
“That’s us.” I sighed.
“. . . where, in fact, I am broadcasting remotely at this moment,” he said as we entered homeroom, and there he was, round, pink, and beaming, microphone in hand. As we filed past, he straightened his tie (decorated with dozens of tiny Pac-Man images) and continued to address the school. “Here they are now, your amigos and mine. Their faces, shoulders, and droopy gaits say, ‘Hey dude, chill out. You aren’t gonna get us to participate.’ Well, we’ll see.” He clicked off the microphone and smiled around the room with small square teeth. “We . . . shall . . . see.”
Ms. Stein rose from behind her desk. “Let’s take attendance and then—”
“It’s party time!” Mr. Novak said with a fist pump.
When she finished calling our names, making sure we were all present, he rubbed his hands together, saying, “Fep Prep is us . . . What does that mean? Who can tell me?”
The room was as quiet and unmoving as a warehouse full of mannequins.
Mr. Novak covered his eyes, circled a finger in the air, and pointed. “You!”
“Um—um, well,” Doug stammered, “I think it means . . . we’re Fep Prep?”
Mr. Novak shot him a thumbs-up. “Very good, Mister . . .”
“Stuffins,” Ms. Stein said.
“Aha! Douglas. I remember your file,” Mr. Novak said. “Chess Club, freshman year. Classic Movie Club, now. And you’ve participated in nothing else. Correct?”
“Basically,” Doug said in a small voice.
“Well, we’re going to change that,” he said. “Fep Prep can only be us if we interact with one another. To that end, each homeroom will hold an event with a homeroom in another grade, seniors with sophomores, and so on. Ms. Stein’s class will host freshmen. This way, instead of remaining in cliques and clusters, you will now be forced, gently, to mingle. The organizing homeroom requires a representative, an ambassador, so to speak, who, well, organizes the event.” Mr. Novak lifted a Fep Prep football helmet. “Go-o-o Cavaliers!” he roared, giving it a shake. “I’ve placed slips of paper in here with each of your names on them. One lucky person will be selected by yours truly.” He dug a hand inside the helmet, set it aside, and then unfolded and stared at a slip of paper. “Sar . . . Sar . . . ,” he read, squinting, drawing out the syllables.
Wait . . . it’s me . . . really?! I thought. It’s like a bad sitcom!
“Gosh darn these glasses,” Mr. Novak said, lifting them from his face, placing them on his forehead.
Oh god . . . just get it over with, I fretted, hating life.
He held the paper inches from his face and then smiled at the room. “Where is she? Sara Jane Rispoli?”
I raised an arm as limp as a dead trout. “That’s . . . me.”
“Congratulations! Report to my office end of the day tomorrow for instructions!” he said gleefully. “This is going to be fun!”
“Congratulations,” Doug whispered.
“By the way, Sally Jane?” Mr. Novak said. “In the spirit of interaction, choose a partner, if you please.”
“It’s . . . Sara Jane,” I said quietly.
“Fep Prep is us!” Mr. Novak said, shooting the room a double thumbs-up and hustling out the door.
I turned to Doug and smiled. “Howdy, pardner.”
“Shit,” he muttered.
“Speaking of,” I said, “we’re going to be in it, deeply, if we don’t find another member for the Classic Movie Club. Ms. Ishikawa warned me last week.”
I’d founded the club as a sophomore in an admittedly flimsy attempt to appear well-rounded when I someday applied to colleges. The problem now was that every school organization required at least three members and when Max moved to L.A., leaving the club with only two members, we’d become ineligible. Mr. Novak now tracking everyone’s participation was the last thing Doug and I needed. Ms. Ishikawa, our English lit teacher and activities coordinator, had already threatened to shut us down if we didn’t hustle up a new recruit soon.
As it turned out, a new recruit came to me.
After the bell rang, Doug went his way and I went mine. Trudging toward Trigonometry, I became aware of a trailing cloud of perfume.
“You look like you slept in that T-shirt. Could it be more wrinkled?” Gina Pettagola said cheerily, appearing beside me. We were best friends in kindergarten, semi-friends in middle school, and now two people who were friendly to each other with little contact. We’d drifted apart over the years, she toward the popular kids who socialized often, I into the Rispoli family habit of introversion. The thing about Gina was that she clung to loyalty, as did I, so we had never quite severed the bond between us. A petite dynamo w
ith the features of a porcelain doll (she’d been proactive in taking care of her own nose “issue”) and who wore designer everything, Gina was the reigning queen of gossip at Fep Prep.
“I have no useful information about anything,” I said.
“Doubtless,” she said, “but I’m about to make your day.”
“Oh?”
“I joined your little movie club thingy!”
I stopped and looked at her. “Really? I mean, that’s great, but why?”
“Need more stuff on my résumé,” she said. “I’m already in six clubs and organizations but I decided to go for lucky number seven. I’m trying to get an internship at DishTheDirt.com. It’s the Tiffany’s of online gossip.” She looked at me closely, inspecting the damage from the tunnel collapse. “What happened to your face?”
“Oh, uh . . . boxing,” I said. “Fighting.”
“Ick. You still do that?”
“Every day.”
“Hey, FYI, I have some dirt to dish, just for you. If you want it, that is.”
“No thanks,” I said, walking on.
“Are you sure? It’s straight from Mandi Fishbaum.”
“I saw Mandi this morning,” I said. “How does she do it—spend all that money on clothes, hair, and makeup and still manage to look like a stripper?”
“I know what you mean,” she said, “but she gave me a juicy tidbit. You know she’s Max’s cousin—”
That stopped me again. “So?”
“So,” she said, “it seems your ex-BF has a new GF . . . and she’s an actress! That redheaded chick, what’s-her-name, on that vampire TV show!”
I stared at her, feeling as if my heart was being clogged with wet cement. “I didn’t need that today, Gina,” I said. “In fact, I don’t need it any day.”
Her face shifted, the smile fading. “I just thought . . . you’d want to know.”
“Gotta go to class,” I mumbled, turning away.
“See you in Classic Movie Club,” she called after me.
I shoved my hands in my pockets, fingers grazing my phone, and thought of the last call I’d made. One month and he’s already seeing someone? I thought. I’m that easy to forget? I knew my evasiveness and refusal to answer his questions had hurt him, but this hurt, too, and—I couldn’t help it—made me really angry. I blinked once, feeling the cold blue flame leap and burn brightly. A line of voltage crackled over my shoulders, and there was a buzz at my fingertips, and then another.
It was my phone.
I blinked again, slowed my pace, and stared at a text message from Tyler:
Tonight, 10 p.m., lasagna with Aunt Betty, can’t wait to see u . . . Candi.
Me 2, I wrote back, and meant it.
12
THERE IS NOTHING PRINCIPLED, NOBLE, OR JUST IN an organized-crime street war. It’s a dispute over money, and every bill has blood on it.
I put down the pen and looked up from my journal.
The clock read 6:15. It was Tuesday morning.
My meeting with Knuckles and Tyler would happen in forty-five minutes.
The Bird Cage Club was silent. Doug and Harry were asleep on the couch in the other room, the little dog wrapped around Doug’s feet. My eyes had popped open at 4:00 a.m., my subconscious churning with questions about how to offer Elzy four billion dollars for my family without getting captured, and how that would fit in with the street war.
At least one of those concerns was on Knuckles’s mind, too.
Tyler had sent a text to him (and copied me) late the previous evening. It was a precautionary message, asking what ingredients were being used in the lasagna—the meeting. “Spinach” was code for a financial issue, and “meat” signified a hit, that someone was targeted for murder. Instead, Knuckles replied with another ingredient:
Red sauce.
The Outfit’s code word for the Russians was “Red,” as in “Red hit on my girlfriend” (Russians are moving in on my prostitution trade) or “Red stole a cup of sugar” (Russians are taking over my cocaine biz). Knuckles wanted to discuss the street war, urgently.
There’s a saying in real estate . . . “Location, location, location.” That’s what the war’s all about, I wrote. The Outfit controls neighborhoods on the South and West Sides where it sells drugs and hookers . . . where there are money-laundering front businesses, chop shops, and meth labs . . . neighborhoods that are prime hunting grounds for “zombies” (gambling addicts, drug addicts, sex addicts, whatever addicts), and Elzy wants those neighborhoods . . . no, scratch that: she’s using her Russian soldiers to take over those neighborhoods.
I bit a thumbnail, trying to think like her.
Once she controls all of that area, she’ll control the Outfit’s cash flow, which means she has the Outfit. But members won’t merge seamlessly with her mob. There will be deep distrust and resentment, I wrote. That’s why she wants me. Whatever Juan Kone did to my dad, he must be unfit to serve as counselor. It’s so clear: my job will be to force Outfit members into compliance. Along with the notebook—ultimate power—she thinks she’ll have it all.
I thought of what I’d seen and heard over the past month, and what I knew.
In a series of sit-downs, the tenor of the discussion about the war had begun to shift from “we need to fight harder” to “the longer we fight, the more money we lose.” The conflict was bad for business—it required cash for weapons and cash to bribe law officials to look the other way, and worse, it took members away from their daily rackets, so they were unable to earn. While a small group of Outfit old-timers advocated fighting until the bitter end, the younger contingent, now the majority of members, were muttering about making a deal with the rival mob—to cede certain territories to the Russians and allow everyone to get back to the business of money, money, money.
What I knew was that Lucky, the Boss of Bosses, would never stop fighting.
He was Elzy’s last barrier and he was formidable.
Chicago had belonged to the Outfit alone for a century, and Lucky was determined that it wouldn’t change on his watch. At the outset of the war, he ordered me to be prepared to use cold fury to interrogate hostages, and said that if they had no useful information, it would be up to me to decide if they were tortured or killed. His directive came after Johnny Eyeball, the poor kid who was on his way to becoming an ice cream creature, escaped Juan Kone but was captured by the Outfit and mistaken for a Russian mobster. I took a huge risk, setting Johnny free, hoping that he’d find his way home. And then I lied to Lucky, telling him I’d killed the kid myself. But the Russians—the real Russians—were quick and crafty, and not one had been caught. With the rank and file’s growing hesitancy to fight, along with mutterings about the hostilities being bad for business, morale within the Outfit was slipping. As VP of Muscle, it was Knuckles’s job to keep the Outfit doing battle, swinging lead pipes and firebombing the Russians.
Is that what the meeting’s about? I wrote. Maybe Knuckles wants me to use cold fury to force members to fight? Or needs Tyler to authorize money for . . . more weapons?
The alarm clock buzzed twice—6:30 a.m.
I closed the journal, rubber-banded my hair into a ponytail, thought about Tyler again, and removed the rubber band. After jumping into fresh jeans, I found a T-shirt that wasn’t too wrinkled (thanks, Gina), and did battle with my hair until it looked like it belonged on a human head. At the last second, I touched my mouth with lip gloss.
As I moved across the Bird Cage Club, Doug rose on an elbow and said, “Good luck with Aunt Betty.”
“Thanks.”
“Tell Candi I said hi,” he said, followed by smooching noises.
“Shut up. Don’t forget to walk Harry.”
“He won’t let me, will you puppy-boy?” he said, scratching the little dog’s head. “Take your aspirin?”
“Of course,” I said, avert
ing his gaze. “Take a break from smoking.”
“No can do. That’s the thing about a habit. You have to be consistent.”
“See you at school,” I said, stepping onto the elevator.
“Don’t forget our meeting with Novak, after last period.”
“Damn school spirit.” I sighed. “Why does the guy have to be so gung ho?”
“Because Fep Prep is we,” he said lying back down, “or is it ‘are us’?”
• • •
I nosed the Lincoln from the parking garage, scouting for garbage trucks, street cleaners, taxis. Wells Street was deserted. Wacker Drive wound around to Lake Shore Drive, and then I was speeding north to Bryn Mawr Avenue. The pink colossus that was the Edgewater Beach Hotel sat a few blocks away. I parked on a side street and hurried to the rear of the building where a sign was posted above a brass pipe: FIRE HOSE CONNECTION. Making sure no one was around, I pressed the slightly raised C. A Capone Door sprang open and I stepped into an elevator that rose quickly to the roof.
I was the first to arrive and crossed the pebbled surface, watching sunlight push through clouds over Lake Michigan.
Knuckles’s reason for choosing the location was obvious: it was empty, and miles beyond earshot of anyone. The Outfit built the hotel in 1928, with all the old villains—from Capone to Accardo— having spent time here. When I turned, Tyler was walking toward me, smiling. His green eyes and smooth dark skin sent a tingle across my shoulders, and then I had a heartbreaking flashback—not long ago, Max took me to the roof of an old church to watch the sunrise. Marble angels stood guard along its parapet, gazing mournfully at the beautiful, broken city. As the sun appeared, bathing us in a golden glow, Max called it “the light of Italy,” and I knew then that I loved him. But he was gone and Tyler was here, opening his arms for a friendly hug. I smelled his sweet citrus scent, felt his arms around me, and pushed away thoughts of Max.
Embers & Ash Page 9
