I pulled Ramses II from my pocket. The key did double duty, unlocking a door into the silent hallway lined in green glazed bricks, and then the door leading to the Cadillac. The fluorescent lamps buzzed to life as a set of gaping chrome headlights emerged from the dark, staring at us, until the rest of the automobile took shape behind it.
“What we’re about to do is really dangerous. You understand that?” He nodded, and I said, “The Russian mob—they kill easily. They enjoy it.”
“Fun.” He sighed, climbing onto the running board and into the driver’s seat. He wiped sweat from his palms before turning the key. The V-8 engine growled to life and he clunked the gearshift into reverse. With a lurch and a squeal, the Cadillac jumped backward as Doug hit the brakes. He smiled and said, “Five speeds. It’s been a while.” I opened the garage door and he chugged into the alley. When the stash room was secure, we headed to Wicker Park, where Czar Bar awaited. The old car hummed beneath us as we entered a silent zone, consumed with what lay ahead, until Doug said, “Try the radio.”
I turned a button but nothing happened. “Must not work,” I said, and twisted the other button. The face of the radio sprang open, revealing a small, dusty pistol.
“Whoa,” Doug said slowly. “That’s convenient.”
I snapped open the chamber, which was filled with bullets, and shut it again. The gun fit snugly into my palm; it would be so easy to fire. I thought of the boxes in the backseat—one holding moth-eaten police uniforms, another filled with blood-smeared cash, the last clinking with old whiskey. I replaced the pistol and closed the radio. “Vlad warned me,” I said, “to bring no weapons and no friends. Especially ones that are supposed to be dead.”
“I won’t make a move until I see you come out.”
“Cold fury is useless against these guys. I’ll kindle the electricity if I need to.”
“As a last resort,” he said, rolling down Division Street. “Stick to the plan. Get your mom and Lou, walk to the curb . . .”
“And get the hell out of there,” I said, looking at street signs. “Make a left.”
Doug turned onto Hoyne Avenue, slowed to a halt, and cut the engine. Czar Bar was a block away; we could see its red neon sign. He cleared his throat and said, “One thing we haven’t discussed. If you don’t come out—”
“We haven’t talked about it because I am coming out,” I said. “I can’t bear to think any other way.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s 11:24.”
I paused in the open door. “Wish me luck.”
“Better than a wish. Take it,” he said, handing me the lighter.
I moved from streetlight to streetlight toward Czar Bar, now half a block away. When I glanced back, Doug’s gaze was pinned on me. I turned and continued, thinking that even a lucky person needed courage, and a courageous person needed luck.
I rubbed a thumb over the lighter’s steel skin, trying to summon both.
25
WICKER PARK IS AN OLD NEIGHBORHOOD MADE from centenarian stone buildings, tarnished copper downspouts, and mossy brick avenues. Beneath my feet, the gnarled roots of aged trees ruptured the sidewalk; overhead, the moon was a pale wafer, bathing the avenue in milky whiteness.
A beater pickup filled with cast-off metal squeaked past, and disappeared.
I stared across the street at Czar Bar.
Two large windows flanked the entrance with their shades drawn. The only illumination came from the buzzing sign identifying the place, creaking in a slow breeze over the door. I touched the lighter once, took a deep breath, looked both ways, and then coughed it out, seeing a dark ComEd van parked at the curb. It was followed by an empty garbage truck and a school bus. Turning my head, I spotted a squadron of delivery scooters. Great, I thought. No weapons or friends versus half the Russian mob. I stared at Czar Bar listening to my ragged breath, and then crossed the street.
Thinking of all that my family had suffered, I blinked once, deliberately.
The blue flame flickered and burned in my gut, dancing with each step I took.
It skimmed my veins and tweaked my heart as I paused to crack ten knuckles, and then pushed through the door.
What I saw and heard: dim light unable to penetrate dark corners; the shift and creak of many bodies turning in my direction; a faint, scratchy recording of a woman warbling sadly in Russian. To my left, a row of tables filled with men receded into shadows. The commingled scent of body odor, cheap cologne, and viciousness pervaded the room. To my right sat an old-fashioned booth with panels so high that I was unable to see inside. The only sign that it was occupied came from a ribbon of cigarette smoke curling toward the tin ceiling. Before me, leaning on the corner of a bar that ran the length of the room, Vlad leered with sharp teeth. “Hello, baby,” he said, touching the heavy gold chain around his neck, and then self-consciously moving his hand to the bandage covering the damage done by Harry.
“Hey Vlad. What’s new?” I said coolly. “Besides the hole in your face.”
“I lost a nose.” He shrugged. “You lost friend and doggy.” The wicked smile remained in place but his eyes taunted me. “The sit-down is scheduled as planned, yes?”
I nodded. Trying to keep the nerves out of my voice, I said, “Where are my mother and brother?”
“Ask the boss,” he said, pointing at the booth. I hesitated, and then took a cautious step as three tattooed men wearing goggles filled in behind me, blocking the exit. First I saw the table covered by a white cloth, then a glass ashtray, then a pale finger with a bright red nail lazily tracing its circular contour, and then the bleached-blond harpy once married to my now dead uncle Buddy.
“Greta,” I said slowly, suspicion confirmed, anger increasing exponentially.
She smiled with candy apple–colored lips as smoke leaked from her nostrils. With an exaggerated pout, she said, “Aunt Greta.” Stubbing out the cigarette, she adjusted a tight black leather jacket over a formidable bust. Narrowing her eyes behind crimson lenses, she said, “Surprised?”
“No. Yes,” I answered. “I always knew you were up to something, but I never would have guessed it was this.” Unable to keep the anger from my voice, I said, “You were part of our family.”
“Never a part, only an observer,” she said.
“You treated my uncle like a fool.”
“Everyone did, starting with your father,” she said, primping her peroxided locks. “Take a load off. We’ve got a few minutes.”
“Until what?”
“The tearful reunion, of course,” she said with a mean little grin.
I sat across from her, staring blankly, and then looked around at the men and the firepower. Despite myself, I blurted, “All of this . . . how—?”
She shrugged and lit a new cigarette. “My Russian parents were dead and I was poor. But Buddy wasn’t,” she said. “He owned part of a bakery. It wasn’t a fortune but it was more than I had, so I married him.”
“Seduced him. Lied to him.”
“He wuvved his Gweta,” she said in the nauseating baby talk she’d used with him, “but was very unhappy with your grandfather and father. His confessions to me were like a slow leak . . . first about your family’s role in the Outfit, and then about ghiaccio furioso, how unfair it was that he’d been excluded just because he didn’t possess it. I stoked those feelings until they were white-hot, urging him to learn more. And he did.”
“The notebook,” I said.
“He knew there was something in it that was very powerful—ultimate power, as your dad calls it,” she said, blowing smoke rings into the air. “How much do you hate me? Can you even describe it?”
I couldn’t, and said nothing.
“I don’t hate you or your family. Calling Buddy fat and stupid is an insult to fat, stupid people, but I didn’t hate him, either. The fact is that I’m ambitious,” she said. “As I learned ab
out the Outfit from Buddy, I realized that I could do what it does, and better, with my own organization. So I reached out to a childhood friend with experience in all things criminal to help me. Isn’t that right, Vladdy?”
“Right, boss.” He grinned, moving closer.
“Things came together after that,” she said. “I had men watching your home and the bakery. What a surprise one night, six months ago. So many visitors to the Rispoli household! First Elzy and her brother, and then those little ice cream trucks. Elzy made a hasty retreat. Juan Kone’s freaks took your family, my men followed the trucks, and the rest is history.” Greta glanced around at the scarred, tattooed mobsters. “In Russia, convicts band together to survive, kill to enforce the rules of survival, and then kill for fun because what the hell else is there to do? They enter prison as men and leave as animals. Chicago is a playground to them.”
“How you say . . . easy pickings.” Vlad chuckled.
“Elzy kept you on the run while I melted into Juan’s organization. Black latex, white makeup, strap-down bra, and saline drops to redden my eyes. My biggest coup was stealing a pair of these from Juan,” she said, pointing at her crimson contact lenses. “From then on, the Rispolis had no power over me. Meanwhile, reports of your tenacity got back to Juan’s lab. That’s when I decided to let you do the rest.”
“I got Juan out the way,” I said grimly, “so you could take my family.”
“I have them, and this. A mess but legible.” In a swift movement, she threw the notebook onto the table, its formerly waterlogged pages dried to a fine, yellowed crisp.
“Now?” Vlad said.
Greta nodded, and he lifted a metal bucket onto the table. Slowly, enjoying himself, he tore off the notebook’s cover, ripped out its pages, dropped it all into the bucket and used a small can of lighter fluid to coat the debris. Greta slid him a pack of matches. Vlad lit one with a flourish and dropped it into the bucket, too. The fire worked quickly, chewing up the old paper, emitting a swirling cloud of gassy vapor and ash.
“There go your family secrets, up in smoke,” Greta said. “Whatever help they provided is now gone. Frankly, they’re useless to me, frivolities at best. What matters is that I have you.”
I watched the notebook burn, the sense of security it had provided me burning away with it, and then looked at Greta. “We have a deal.”
“Correction. I hold every card and you have nothing, not even that scary electricity. One crackle, and you’ll catch a hundred bullets to the heart before you take a step.” With an amused smile, she said, “Wake up, child. There’s no deal.”
“But we agreed,” I said, with a chill of unease, like being scratched by a cat’s frozen claws. “I’m going to name you boss of the Outfit.”
“Yeah, of course. But I still want ultimate power.”
“I told you—”
“Please. Buddy was the fool, not me,” she said calmly, drawing a pinkie over her lips, fixing a smear. “Personally, I’m completely without nuance when it comes to the life I’ve chosen. I want what I want because I want it, just like every man in this room.” She leaned forward, gazed over her shoulder, and back at me. “Do you think they would follow me if I didn’t pay them well?”
“Loyalty,” I said, the word sounding idiotic on my tongue.
“Nonsense.” Greta snorted, sitting back and crossing her arms. “I don’t know specifically what ultimate power is, but I know one thing—it’s most certainly money in some form, because there’s nothing in the world as powerful. It’s the singular driving force behind the Outfit, my organization, every organization, criminal or civilian. This is real life. Whoever has the most money rules the world, whatever world she occupies.”
It was so quiet that the creaking sign outside the door provided the only noise.
“Do you deny it?” she asked politely.
I’d been in too many crisis situations not to understand the dire consequences of telling anything but the truth. “No,” I said, “ultimate power is—”
Greta lifted a hand, silencing me. “When we’re alone. If I’m satisfied, we’ll attend the sit-down where you’ll name me boss, and then you’ll hand it over. Afterward, you can have your parents. They’re useless to me now.”
“Parents,” I said. “What about Lou?”
“Lou stays with me,” she smiled. “Juan had quite a collection of drugs in his lab. The psychotropics were the most useful. At the right dosage, they alter a person’s behavior and conception of reality. The drugs had to be combined with torture, of course . . . Vlad’s specialty.”
He winked at me with a pointed smile.
“But what a difference they burned into Lou’s brain. Your brother despises you, his failed savior,” she said.
That word, scrawled in blood by Lou, cut me like a razor.
“He’s devoted to his aunt Greta. He’s become quite a soldier, although that’s not why he’s staying,” she said. “Lou is my permanent hostage. He’ll die in front of your eyes unless you serve me as counselor. After I merge the Outfit and the Russian mob, it’ll be comprised of violent men who’ve been at war, who hate each other to death. Your first job will be to command the Outfit to fall into line behind me.”
Suspicion rising sickly, I said, “What about my dad?”
She raised a plucked and penciled eyebrow. “What about him?”
“Why not use him to get the Outfit to fall into line?”
“Good question,” she said, nodding at Vlad.
He called out a command in Russian and a shuffle sounded from the back of the room. Vlad met the noise halfway, dismissed a pair of men, and dragged a bent form onto a barstool. I rose in slow motion from my seat in the booth, seeing first a torso in a stained white shirt and then an unmistakable Roman profile, even though he was slumped toward the bar. As if in a slow nightmare, heart in my throat, I whispered, “Dad?”
“Sara Jane . . . ,” he said in a faraway voice, here but somewhere else, as he lifted his head and turned it searchingly. I saw that his right eye was gone.
“Oh god . . . Daddy!” I cried, going to him, gripping his shoulders. He came forward, head lolling on his neck, a thick scar sunk inward and empty over a socket that once held cold blue power flecked with gold.
“I knew you’d find us,” he said, smiling weakly. “My smart girl.”
26
THE MAN IN MY ARMS WAS MY DAD, BUT HE wasn’t.
Years and years had been piled onto him. Confinement, vile experimentation, and torture had aged my poor father long before his time.
His other eye, clouded, searching, found me. He tried to speak again, mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish, breath fetid, cheeks covered with ashen whiskers, and I kissed him, kissed his cracked lips and rough chin, kissed his scarred brow that used to be smooth, kissed his head that once was covered in hair that was black, lustrous, and wavy, but was now thin, brittle, and white, kissed his sallow skin and pulled him close until ever so slowly his hand spread over my back, feeling me there, that I was real.
I stared at the scar running from his forehead to his cheekbone as the cold blue flame danced in my gut. Turning to Greta, I said, “Why? For what reason?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t me. Juan Kone was a genius and a fool in one disgusting package,” she said. “When he was unable to extract enough enzyme GF from your father’s blood, he cut out his eye, hoping to mine the last precious ounces required to build his army. He failed, and came after you.” She sighed ruefully. “That lost eye . . . cold fury is weak to point of uselessness without both of them. That’s why I needed you as badly as the notebook.”
I looked down at my dad again, how crushed he was, and said, “You have me. I’ll serve. But only if you give me my mom and brother, too, right now.”
“Your mommy.” Vlad chuckled. “We broke her like glass.”
“Juan did a
number on her, but I have to say, it was fun washing the rest of the curiosity from her brain,” Greta said, stubbing out the cigarette. “She’s a lot less . . . inquisitive these days.”
I was vibrating now, the dam between cold fury and the deadly voltage beginning to weaken. “My mom, dad, and Lou,” I said, biting back the rage, “now.”
“Or what?” she snorted.
When I moved my gaze to hers, the flame was jumping so high and furiously that a cobalt glow washed across her face. “Or I’d rather die,” I said, feeling the charged electrons soldiering up my spine, along my shoulders, into my fingertips. “If my family can’t be together, intact, you can’t have me, or cold fury.” I was crackling like a live wire, and stood away from my dad.
“Sara Jane,” he whispered, “be careful . . .”
“She’s bluffing.” Vlad chortled. “Go to hell, bitch.”
“You first,” I said, lunging at the gold chain around his neck as a ferocious bolt of electricity shot through my body, more powerful than I’d ever experienced. It infiltrated my bones, my veins, racing into my hands, and then a blue wave of energy exploded outward from me, through Czar Bar, blowing mobsters off their feet, out of their chairs, overturning tables—followed by a deafening sonic boom!, as if lightning had struck the building. I was on the floor, my dad crumpled next to me. Voltage surged though my body, burning me from the inside out, biting at my intestines. I spit bile and rose with a painful effort, as if I were a hundred years old.
My fingers tingled with heat and I looked into my hand at Vlad’s gold chain, burned black and stuck with strips of his flesh.
Vlad’s head was on the floor staring past me into eternity.
The rest of him, burned away from the neck down, was still smoldering.
I dropped the chain and weakly tried to lift my dad, stumbling to my knees, my hands red and painful, hearing the metallic click of a hundred guns. Greta had been thrown from the booth and across the room, but was on her feet. Dazed and enraged, she pointed a red fingernail and croaked, “Take her alive! But kill him!”
Embers & Ash Page 20
