Smoothing and retwisting my hair into a ponytail, wiping the grime and sweat of the terrible day from my face, I started up the stairs. Through the wall along which I climbed, in the guts of the building, a muted exhalation sounded, over and over again, of water being pulled in and pushed out. The stairs ended at an outdoor walkway where I could smell the clean, fishy scent of the lake. I stepped outside, peering across glassy water at the faraway city. Looking around at the enormous round brick structure upon which I stood, and which squatted miles from shore in Lake Michigan, I knew exactly where I was: Water Intake Island, the largest pumping station and one of the most isolated spots in Chicago. The train had carried me beneath the vast inland sea.
“Counselor Rispoli,” a voice rumbled, sounding like Riz-booli. I turned to the stern, gray presence who’d been the gateway to Lucky at the Algren Hotel. He shifted an AK-47, and said, “This way.” We climbed another set of stairs to the large, circular lighthouse sitting atop the pumping station like the second layer of a wedding cake. Pausing outside double doors, he appraised me coolly and then pushed them open, followed me inside, and bolted them behind us.
We entered a high-ceilinged room, also built of brick. Hundreds of rank-and-file members crammed the space, some sitting, some milling about, others in murmuring groups beneath hovering clouds of cigarette smoke. They consisted of young and old men of every body shape and size. The only common themes among them were being armed (they trusted no one) and anonymity. They were dressed to blend in with the general population, looking like a quiet neighbor, a reliable mechanic, or a friendly plumber, since that’s what they were on the surface. In reality they were enforcers and hit men, drug dealers, pimps, counterfeiters, and thieves, one life a façade, the other operating in the underworld. There was not a man present who would not slit a throat for a dime. They were evil wrapped in skin and hair, two legs, two arms, and a head, and all of them were staring at me now.
A dais stood in the middle of the room.
I climbed it with the stern gray presence behind me, and stared back.
The rank and file crowded forward like the audience at a concert. Tyler and Knuckles occupied opposite ends of the front row where everyone could see them. I scanned the room, spotting no crimson lenses or goggles. Tyler had done as ordered, bruised and bandaged but with chin held high—my most ardent supporter. Knuckles sat in his wheelchair, hat off, thin hair combed greasily across his skull. Now and then, one of his men would lean in and whisper, and the old killer would grin confidently, striving to look like a leader of men. My decision would be announced, and then enforced with cold fury.
The answer came to me then in the blink of an eye.
When I blinked mine, I would have the entire Outfit under my control.
They would stare at me because it was the rule—because they wanted to be led.
I’d killed human beings to survive and protect my family. If it was justified, what was the difference between two or three, or a thousand? I could command them to stand still, not make a move as I went man to man, using their own weapons. Or even better, I could order them to kill themselves. Blood would flow on Water Intake Island. It would swirl and mix into Lake Michigan and my family’s greatest sin, its greatest threat, would wash away forever.
Looking at the rapt crowd, I heard my dad’s voice speaking to me again: There’s a line. There’s always a line . . .
This was it—mass murder that would lead me across an abyss.
I’d be free of the Outfit but lose myself forever. I could already feel it. Alive on the outside but dead on the inside, smothered beneath a thousand souls.
Other words came back to me, Peek-a-Boo Schwartz in a glass dome whispering that the only way to destroy the Outfit was: Like cancer . . . from the inside out.
A sudden realization stretched before me, filled with six months of fear that the Outfit would discover my dad was missing and assume he’d gone to the Feds as a rat. In that moment—feeling the danger, tasting the peril—I knew exactly who should be boss.
Someone who would betray the rank and file.
Conspire with the Feds to kill the Outfit from the inside out.
Become the queen of all rats.
“The new boss of the Outfit,” I said, as the flame flickered and burned, lighting the room with a cold, blue glow,” . . . is me.”
EPILOGUE
MY NAME IS SARA JANE RISPOLI.
I’ve kept a journal since I was a freshman in high school. From the night my family disappeared, it has had little to do with my life as a student.
That’s okay. I don’t attend school anymore.
Instead I wake early in the morning, before the sun has risen over the large body of water right outside my windows. With the tile floor cool on my feet, I walk silently first to one room, and then to another.
My mother talks in her sleep.
Sometimes she begs unseen phantoms for mercy. Other times she speaks to my dad, comforting him—reassuring him that I’ll save them all. If her dreams are too intense, I’ll rouse her gently. She’ll blink into the shadows, seeing me, remembering that she’s safe. I will ask her if she’s okay and she’ll touch my cheek. Better every day, she’ll say, and finchè c’è vita c’è speranza.
Where there’s life there’s hope.
I adjust her blankets, stroke her soft hair that’s now gone gray, and leave her in peace.
Lou does not talk.
He sleeps so quietly, so deeply buried in his mind, that I lean close to make sure he’s breathing. His chest rises and falls without pause. The drugs have nearly cleared his body. The gunshot wound to his arm has healed well. My little brother grows stronger each day, finding more and more of his lost identity.
A day doesn’t begin or end until I’m sure they’re okay. Even though we’re all together, I think about them—worry about them—constantly.
Old habits die hard.
Forming new ones is harder.
There are times, sitting on the white beach, listening to nothing but the crash of waves, when I don’t know what to do with myself. No one’s chasing me. There’s no one to chase. Indolence is the best feeling in the world. I hope I can get used to it.
I’m trying to get used to not living in Chicago, too.
We traded it three months ago, my mom, Lou, and me, for an island.
Isla Ángel de la Guarda—Guardian Angel Island—on the Sea of Cortez.
My parents bought the villa when they were planning our escape. I think about my dad whenever I look at the cool, blue water—how proud he would be of the deal that I made, and how relieved that my term as boss was the shortest in Outfit history.
It never would’ve happened without Doug.
Days after I assumed the role, he accompanied me to Balmoral Avenue to help prepare for my mom and my brother’s return. We checked lights and locks, and descended to the basement to inspect the furnace. It was there that he noticed bricks in the wall that did not quite match the rest—ten in all—painted an odd shade of red. He chipped at the wall, revealing white paint, scraped more, and a faint yellow glow winked out at us.
My dad had been cautious during those five years of planning our escape.
He’d removed nearly ten million dollars’ worth of gold, two bricks at a time, more than enough for us to flee Chicago.
Not nearly enough bricks to ever allow Greta to flee the vault.
Soon after, I called my first sit-down as boss. Peek-a-Boo arrived early, looking around Club Molasses, saying how she’d danced there in the old days.
My pitch was simple.
I would name her boss.
She would allow us to leave Chicago and never hunt us down. She would open Outfit coffers—full to the brim since the elimination of the Russian mob—and give me cash for the gold bricks, no questions asked. I ended by assuring her that even without a counselor-at-
large and cold fury, the Outfit would fall in line behind her. After I’d gone, it would exist under her command. Peek-a-Boo nodded with hard eyes that understood. Even now, I’m unsure if I needed to use cold fury to make her agree, but I did. Her worst fear was one I understood well—a woman at the mercy of brutal men who wanted to kill her for who she was and what she knew. My hope in naming her boss was that she’d use her newfound power to punish those same men, Outfit style, every chance she got.
My second sit-down was my last.
Outfit members reconvened on Water Intake Island. They stared at me obediently as I made Peek-a-Boo their leader with a blink of my eyes, and not a single enforcer, pimp, or pickpocket objected. I informed them that the office of counselor-at-large was now defunct, never to be restored, but that they would obey Peek-a-Boo’s judgment in every dispute without question—they would obey her every order without question.
I wasn’t blinded by gender.
I knew I’d handed over the Outfit to a person who would pursue its insatiable appetite for money in just as brutal a fashion as Lucky had. With a woman in charge, it might not be business as usual—Peek-a-Boo might indeed punish some of those men who had threatened her—but it would be close.
I didn’t care.
Outfit business had never been mine. I was in the business of saving my family. As far as being queen rat, if it was a choice between that and freedom, it was no choice at all. After I named Peek-a-Boo boss, I left without a look back.
I didn’t want to waste a single minute killing the Outfit from the inside out.
I’d done enough killing.
I wanted to live.
Now I’m on the beach, nearly finished writing for today. I have other things to do. First on the list is to make an overdue phone call. I have a lot of things to tell Max.
Today is someday.
Second is to pick up Doug at the airport.
In the beginning, he stayed for a week, maybe longer, and then returned to Chicago, but this time he’s staying for good. He knows that at some point his mom will finally notice he’s gone, but he doesn’t care. We lost my dad, he’s irreplaceable, but we gained Doug. We’re friends and partners, and now he’s joined a family that loves him.
He’s going to get his GED and then pursue film school. As he said recently, he has a great idea for a movie about a girl, organized crime, and Chicago.
I have no doubt that when my family is accustomed to our new life, my mom will insist that Lou and I resume our education, as well. That sort of normalcy, the continuity of things left undone—I crave it. And now here she comes with my brother, Lou holding her arm, both walking slowly but steadily. The olive hue of my mom’s skin has returned under the warm Mexican sun. My brother is becoming his inquisitive self again, consuming a steady stream of books as the days pass.
Harry’s following behind them, dancing in the sand.
I just flipped through the journal, skimming the secrets I recorded from the notebook. I considered throwing it into the Sea of Cortez when it’s full—to exorcise it, like I’m trying to do with the past half year of my life—and watch it float away.
Except.
Those secrets, old and new, saved my life, and Lou’s and my mom’s.
The Outfit taught me to prepare for every bad situation and to think through every wicked scenario. So I’ll record my last thought for now, scratching the pen across paper:
I’ll keep the journal, just in case . . .
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I OWE A DEBT OF GRATITUDE TO THE CITY OF Chicago for its mythology, the filthy yet fascinating story of the Outfit; the smart, resilient women who inspired Sara Jane Rispoli (there have been many); and family and friends who have been a constant source of encouragement. Sincere thanks to Jason Anthony at LMQ, agent extraordinaire, and to Stacey Barney, an editor who knows a good story when she reads it. And, finally, never last and far from least, Laura, always my first and best audience of one.
Embers & Ash Page 25
