Tyler inspected my cuts and bruises. “What happened to you?”
“Oh . . . I got into the ring. Did a little sparring,” I said.
“Must’ve been with a heavyweight,” he said.
“Yeah, you could say that,” I said, thinking of the debris that had fallen on me.
“Anyway, you look beautiful.”
“I look like it’s seven a.m.,” I said, feeling a blush spread over my face.
“Yeah,” he said with a smile that was an ad for proper dental care, “beautiful.”
“Okay, well . . . you too, as usual,” I said.
“Hey, by the way, that loan shark over on Peterson Avenue? Mario something?” he said, dropping his voice even though we were alone.
“Caminetti,” I said. “I fined him twelve grand a couple of weeks ago. He’s pissed off at me, huh?”
“Just wanted you to know. Safety first,” Tyler said.
“Thanks,” I said, giving his arm a squeeze, as a metal door slammed, followed by the crunch of wheels.
“Whatever you’re doing, knock it off. I just ate,” Knuckles growled, rolling toward us. He was an enormous old man, slabs of geriatric muscle confined to a Scamp—a scooter-wheelchair—his face bisected by a scar inflicted long ago by someone who’d fought back; whoever that someone was, I was certain his last breath came soon afterward. Each time I saw Knuckles, I reminded myself that this giant, grandfatherly type had personally murdered dozens of people and orchestrated the beatings and deaths of hundreds more. He pulled a dandruff-flecked fisherman’s cap back on his broad forehead and scratched a wooden match. The turd-cigar in his mouth flamed white and orange. Coughing out smoke, he said, “If I could personally rip the hearts out of every damn one of those Russians, I’d do it yesterday.”
“You didn’t bring me all the way up here to tell me that,” I said.
“You didn’t need to tell me at all. I could’ve guessed,” Tyler said.
Knuckles glanced around, seeing only indifferent seagulls, and said in a low, resentful tone, “I do need you, damn it. Both of you.”
“Oh?” Tyler said, interest firmly caught.
“From what I hear, Lucky ain’t exactly in the healthiest frame of mind and body to be making decisions,” Knuckles said carefully. “Especially about this street war.”
“What are you saying? Is he sick?” I said, feeling slightly sick myself. After the incident with Johnny Eyeball, Lucky and I had come to a sort of understanding. He didn’t ask about my dad’s protracted illness and I followed his orders like the most obedient of counselors-at-large. I had no idea how I’d be affected if someone else were in charge.
“I’m saying what I’m saying and nothing more,” Knuckles muttered.
“Get to the point,” Tyler said. “Why are we here?”
“VP of Muscle,” Knuckles said, throwing a thumb at himself, and then pointing at Tyler and me. “VP of Money. Counselor-at-large. Only Lucky has more power in the Outfit than the three of us . . . at least individually. But if we join forces,” he whispered, “then we’ll have enough combined power to take control of this maledetto street war.”
“Let me guess”—Tyler smirked—“you want to escalate it. Show those sissy Russians what it really means to fight? Enough of the firebombs, bring out the nukes!”
“No, smart-ass,” Knuckles hissed. “I want to end the violence.”
“Wait, wait—you, the VP of Muscle, whose life has been devoted to maiming and killing,” Tyler said, “want to passively resist?”
“You ain’t understanding me,” Knuckles said. “I want to make a deal with the Russian mob.”
Tyler and I exchanged a look and I said it first. “You? A deal?”
Knuckles nodded his massive skull. “The Outfit has flourished for so long because we always put business first. That means we don’t practice Sicilian vendetta. Someone offends you, pisses you off, and you start shooting, or worse, rat to the Feds? All it does is interrupt business. Instead, you take your beef in front of the counselor-at-large because that’s the rules, and rules make money. And if a guy can earn, who cares if he’s Sicilian or Jewish or—or whatever the hell you are,” he said, nodding at Tyler. “We even held our nose and let you in, sister,” he added, “with all due respect to broads.”
“Speaking for women everywhere, gee, thanks.”
“Look.” Knuckles sighed. “I’ve been around long enough to know that everyone—us, them, whoever—would rather make money than war. We stop fighting over the turf the Russians already took, maybe concede to them a little more, and it’ll end, trust me. The Outfit will earn less, but we’ll be earning. Besides, we’ve always been innovative when it comes to new sources of revenue. Hey, we’re moving into online gambling, big-time, ain’t we? The stinking Russians can’t invade that space.”
“You think Lucky’s judgment is . . . impaired,” Tyler said. “That his insistence on fighting is based on something other than business.”
“No one loves his job as much as I do.” Knuckles sighed. “Splitting heads is the poetry of my goddamn soul. But fighting a war works only when it improves business.”
“You mean, when we’re winning,” I said.
Knuckles pursed his lips and gave a small nod. “In this case it’s killing it.”
“I meet with our accountants every day,” Tyler said. “With members fighting instead of earning income and the Russians stealing our customers, profits are down. Way down. If Lucky’s too old, sick, or whatever to make competent decisions—”
“You didn’t hear that from me,” Knuckles murmured.
“So . . . what’s your plan?” Tyler said.
“Send an emissary under a white flag, one of my guys . . . tell the Russian boss we’re ready to deal,” Knuckles said. “If we don’t put the guns down and start talking soon, we won’t have any turf left.”
Surrender was the smartest thing for business but the worst thing for me.
If the three of us somehow managed to wrest control from Lucky, not only would I lose the old man’s protection but also, making the deal would further embolden Elzy. The turf she’d taken and, as Knuckles said, a little more, wasn’t nearly enough for her. She wanted everything, especially the notebook and me. I shook my head. “No. I have to stay loyal to Lucky. He’s the boss. What he says goes.”
“What’s gonna go,” Knuckles said through gritted teeth, “is more cold, hard cash, right down the crapper!”
“Lucky’s orders are clear. We have to keep fighting,” I said pointedly, “instead of surrendering like cowards.” The old killer stared daggers at me and then turned away, muttering under his breath.
“Sara Jane,” Tyler said. He looked at me closely, narrowing his eyes like a mind reader. Something in his gaze made my heart take an extra beat as he turned to Knuckles and said, “She’s right. We have to stand by Lucky. You said it yourself—the Outfit is nothing without rules.”
Knuckles swallowed the obscenity that must have been tickling his throat. He’d taken a risk proposing we sidestep Outfit protocol; now that he’d been outvoted, he needed to secure his position. “I want to make it clear,” he growled, “that I had no intention of . . . displacing, so to speak . . . Lucky, as boss. I’m just as loyal to him as the both of you! My suggestion was in the best interest of business, and if I hear otherwise, if rumors are whispered about this meeting, I’ll dispute it using every weapon in my arsenal.” He sat back and chewed the cigar. “Besides, if we’re going to keep fighting this damn war, every one of us needs my boys on the front line, with me leading ’em.”
“It’s confidential,” Tyler said, grinning slightly. “You have my word.”
“That and a plugged nickel will buy me Wrigley Field.” Knuckles snorted.
“You have my word, too,” I said. “If I say it, you know that I mean it.”
Knuckles pau
sed and nodded curtly. After a few formalities, he rolled across the roof and was gone. Tyler turned his face to the lake breeze and exhaled, relieved, I supposed, that the old killer had left us. Without his knowing it, Tyler’s support for my position had helped me tremendously, preserving my relationship with Lucky and withholding more power from Elzy.
It made me want to thank him, but to my surprise, he thanked me first.
13
WITHOUT TAKING HIS EYES FROM THE LAKE, he said, “I mean it. I’m totally grateful.”
“Okay, well . . . you’re welcome,” I said, “but for what?”
He turned to me. “For reminding me to take Lucky’s side. It’s dangerous for anyone in the Oufit not to support him, but especially us. A black guy in charge of Money and a woman serving as counselor? Everyone, including Lucky, already regards us as second-class citizens. Besides, Knuckles is a devious old bastard. After what he did to my parents . . .” He shook his head, saying, “Who knows if his plan was even real? What if we’d agreed to it and then he double-crossed us, said it was our idea, that we were planning a coup?”
“Even if it’s real, we can’t afford to oppose Lucky,” I said. “He’s old and he may be sick but he’s still . . . Lucky.”
“In name only,” Tyler said. “My dad tried to explain to me once what it meant to be the boss of the Outfit and it didn’t sound like the luckiest job in the world. Never sure who you can trust, constantly looking over your shoulder for a knife in the back.”
“Comes with a lot of power, though, and a ton of cash,” I said, “if you’re willing to sell your soul.”
“I asked him once, my dad, if he was ever chosen boss, would he do it.”
“What did he say?”
Tyler half smiled, a little sadly, green eyes crinkling at the edges. “Yeah, but only if he could neutralize all his enemies inside the Outfit, which is impossible, since even friends are enemies. Money makes it that way. Everyone wants what everyone else has.”
“Not me,” I said.
“Me neither,” Tyler said, placing a hand on my shoulder, strong and warm. “Look, we have to support each other in this thing. Speaking of backs, you watch mine and I’ll watch yours. Okay?”
“Absolutely,” I said with relief.
“Hey, remember the movie we watched on the plane?”
“Yeah?”
“If you ever need my help, or if something’s really important, that will be our personal code word.”
“Shawshank?”
“Shawshank,” he said with a nod and a smile, and then his gaze hardened. “You know what I wish? That the Outfit never existed. I mean, I understand why my dad didn’t defect. It’s a spiderweb, and once you’re in, they won’t let you out. I take my duties seriously because I have no choice . . .”
“Me too. Exactly.”
“. . . and don’t get me wrong, it comes with perks, so it’s not like I’m suffering. As the next Strozzini in line, even being black, it was inevitable that I’d get the job. But having it happen the way it did, being so young. It was a surprise, you know?”
“Yeah. I know.”
“And so damn confusing. All of a sudden, I had this responsibility and power,” he said quietly. “Not really sure what to feel other than—”
“Trapped?” I said.
“Hatred,” Tyler replied coldly. “My dad told me once that the Outfit runs on hatred, and that the only way to survive is to hate it back.”
“No problem here.”
“In a perfect world, I’d walk away from it,” he said, “far away.”
“If that perfect world ever happens, I’ll go with you.”
“Then I guess we’re not going anywhere together,” he said, “unless you want to give Rome another shot.” He was smiling differently now, charming and a little sad.
“Maybe someday,” I said. “I’m just . . . so busy . . .”
“I know, I know,” he answered, extending an arm. “I’ll settle for walking you to the elevator.”
“Done,” I said, hooking his elbow.
We rode down quickly and stepped onto the sidewalk. “Be careful out there. I need your eyes on my back,” he said with a wink, kissing me on the cheek.
“Me too,” I said, watching him walk to the curb, where a sleek black car had pulled up. He waved once, got inside, and disappeared.
I glanced at my phone—7:42 a.m.
Just enough time to get to Fep Prep before homeroom.
I hurried down the sidewalk and climbed into the Lincoln with the hope that traffic wasn’t too heavy. Being on time for school was strictly enforced at Fep Prep (as Mr. Novak would say, Don’t hesitate and don’t be late, or detention, my friend, will be your fate) and I headed toward Lake Shore Drive.
The southbound morning commute had begun and it was already thick with people going to work in the Loop. I had moved past a station wagon and around a minivan, and was traveling at a fair clip when a school bus came up alongside of me.
The little kids threw me off.
I glanced at the two in each seat, and turned away until my paranoid gut screamed, Anything is possible! The bus edged nearer and when I looked again, those kids were actually large, crouching men in crimson-tinted goggles.
It was an oh-shit! moment followed by rapid acceleration.
The bus swerved in behind me, flying like a huge yellow torpedo. I wove through traffic, trying to shake it off and get distance between us. The big vehicle moved with disturbing speed, sticking to my bumper, coming even closer, and then it hit the Lincoln with a jarring blow. I flew forward in my seat, squeezing the steering wheel, and it hit me again—trying to cause an accident? It could work, taking my car out of commission with more than enough guys to subdue me, maybe even another vehicle nearby. I had to get off the drive, try to escape through narrow side streets where the bus would be forced to slow down. I gunned it toward the nearest exit ramp. Angry horns and screeching tires warned me that the Russians were following my lead. I veered onto North Avenue, blowing through a red light and barely avoiding a collision as two cars coming from opposite directions squealed to a halt in the intersection behind me.
The bus didn’t pause, smashing through them, sending the cars spinning out of its way as it continued after me.
I leaned on the gas, squealed onto Clark Street, and slalomed in and out of too much traffic. Eyes flicking from the windshield to the rearview mirror, I watched the bus gaining speed, coming inches from plowing down a motorcyclist, swerving wildly around the poor guy, and then it was behind me again. I had a choice—continue up Clark Street into even heavier traffic or slide to the right, down Lincoln Park West—and I went right, careening past a pair of bicycle cops who could only watch openmouthed as I sped by with the bus on my tail. I knew now that city streets had been a stupid idea, there were too many obstacles; I had to get back on Lake Shore Drive and head north, away from the commuters, where traffic would be light and the road open. Ahead, at Fullerton Avenue, a car idled patiently at another red light, suddenly green, and it slowly turned onto Fullerton. With no time to wait, I made a wide, stuttering right turn around it, and flew down Fullerton back to the drive.
In back of me, far too close, came the thunderous blast of the bus’s horn, as it, too, went around the car.
The speed limit on Fullerton was twenty-five miles per hour, which I tripled, howling past the Lincoln Park reservoir and hanging a murderous left onto the Lake Shore Drive on-ramp with the bus only a few feet behind.
Gears grinding and brakes shrieking, it went onto two wheels, and then no wheels.
I watched in the rearview as it flipped into a toppling roll, smashing into the underpass wall. It creaked once and settled onto all four blown tires, motionless and smoking.
I drove away, free and breathing.
• • •
Doug was at his desk when I e
ntered homeroom. “How was the lasagna?” he said.
“There was a bus full of Russians,” I said, still shaking a little. “I barely made it.”
He bit his lip, eyes worried, as Ms. Stein took attendance and made announcements. Then the bell rang. In the hallway, he gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. “You okay?”
“It was close. Too damn close,” I said with a nervy shudder. “Anyway, it’s the lasagna that matters.”
“Tell me about it during Classic Movie Club. We’re watching Amarcord. There are parts in it we can talk through without missing a damn thing.”
Mrs. Ishikawa had set third period as our club time at the beginning of the year; it was only a couple of hours away but that wasn’t the problem. I shook my head. “Gina, remember? We can’t discuss it in front of her.”
“And I have a mandatory study session during lunch,” he said.
“After school, then.”
“You mean after Novak,” he said.
I nodded and turned down the hallway. The rest of the day crept past. After the final bell, walking toward the meeting, I was hit with the familiar sense of guilt that accompanies a trip to the principal’s office whether you’ve done anything wrong or not. There’s just something about turning the doorknob that feels like doom is waiting on the other side.
Instead it was Doug, waiting in a chair, twiddling his thumbs.
Mr. Novak’s secretary looked up, said nothing, and nodded me into a chair, too.
“How was Aunt Betty?” he whispered.
“Hideous, as usual,” I answered just as quietly.
“Candi?”
Embers & Ash Page 10
