by Pascal Marco
“Scene of the unfortunate incident,” Tyrone answered.
“Yeah. Dat’s it! Scene of the unfortunate incident,” mocked Pick. “Ya see, they can’t call it ‘scene of the crime’ ‘cause there was no crime. All the alleged suspects were found not guilty as charged. You remember that? ‘Course you do. You see, James, sometimes things just aren’t what they seem to be the first time you see them.” They continued to walk on the asphalt path toward the spot of Manny Fleischman’s three-decade-old attack. “You see, my man, what you thought you saw when you was just a small boy all dem years ago, may notta been at all what you thought it was. You dig? See, you thought you seen some young, angry, outta’control little nigger boys beatin’ up an old white man, when what was really happenin’ was dem proud black youths was just protectin’ themselves.”
Stan stopped and stared at him.
“What? You don’t believe me? Well, it’s true,” Pick cried. “‘Dat ol’ Jew hated niggers like us. He really had it in for black boys, ‘specially for yours truly here. Claimed I stole stuff when I worked at Hyde Park Foods as a delivery boy, just before they fired me and hired your smart little nigger ass. And here all I was tryin’ to do was my part in helping out my auntie Della and cousin Julius. Two of my family who had to raise me when my daddy and momma were forced to abandon me in order to become secret agents for the government.”
Tyrone snickered at Pick’s sarcasm.
“You’re nothing but a liar and a murderer, Pick,” scoffed Stan.
“Whoa, James, my man. Watch what you’re sayin’. I can sue you for dat. Libel is what they call it. Ain’t dat right, Tyrone?”
“Judge Judy’d throw his ass in jail, for sure,” Pick’s sidekick retorted on cue from his leader.
“It’s not libelous if it’s true,” Stan said. “And you gotta lotta fuckin’ balls to stand here, look me in the eye, and tell me Mister Fleischman attacked you. What kinda silly ass fool you take me for, nigger?”
“Who you callin’ a nigger?” Pick grabbed Stan by the lapels. “I’ll tell you what kinda’ fool. You’re the kinda fool dat thinks he can come back into my city—into my park—after all these years and raise up some ghost of an old Jew-man who got what he deserved. Dat’s what kinda fool I think you are!” He spun Stan around and grabbed him by the arm, pushing him toward a spot he pointed to on the asphalt. “Look. Lookie here, you little cocksucker. Here’s where I smashed that Jew motherfucker’s head. Splattered his thick skull with your baseball bat.” Pick threw his Kool to the ground near the spot to where he had pointed. He put his pointed-toed shoe over it and twisted his foot hard several times, snuffing out the cigarette. “I think they call that ‘irony’—ain’t dat right, Tyrone?”
“Oh, yeah. Irony. Dat’s the word, my man,” Tyrone repeated.
Stan stared down at the exact spot where Fleischman fell after Pick’s first vicious blow with the bat. The location and the sight were indelibly etched in his mind. He watched now as Pick ground out his cigarette on the asphalt path. For the first time in years, the thought reentered his mind of how he much he wanted to kill Pick.
“Came in real handy dat bat o’ yours. Never thought I’d be usin’ it to protect myself when I took it from you. Often wondered where that Dick Allen Louisville ended up.”
Stan turned to him. “Yeah? Well, I often wondered what happened to you, Pick. Wondered if somebody smoked your jive ass in the projects or took your pitiful mug to a cornfield somewhere out in Indiana and dumped you where nobody’d ever find you. I wished for that as a kid. Prayed you’d get the same thing you gave Manny Fleischman.”
“But you forget, James, my man. I’m a cat. Got nine lives. Remember? Nine lives. And I still got plenty o’ lives left, too. Nobody smokin’ ol’ Pick. Nobody. ‘Specially no squealin’ little sorry ass Arizona nigger lawyer like you.”
Stan watched Pick turn toward the limo, which had crept slowly behind them along the park’s wide path. Pick waved the driver to pull alongside the three of them as they stood there on the spot where the Fleischman attack had taken place so long ago. The driver rolled down his window.
“Tubbs, you remember James Overstreet, don’t you?” Pick said.
The driver nodded.
“Sure you do. That’s right. And you remember Tubbs, don’t you, James? The last time you saw my boy Tony Tubbs here was when my cousin, Julius, had him driving that van for the Cook County Sheriff’s Office with you and your family in it. We missed our chance to kill you that day. This time we won’t.” Pick looked at Tyrone. “Why don’t we take Mister Overstreet here for another little ride, ‘ceptin’ this time, let’s do the job right.”
HONK! HONK! HONK!
The three men, standing alongside the limo, turned when they heard a car’s horn, blaring like that of a Coast Guard cutter on the nearby lake. A bright yellow car, its engine accelerating, sped toward them. The group stood frozen on the asphalt path like frightened deer in the headlights of the fast approaching cab. Less than ten feet from plowing into them, Pick and Witherspoon dove into a row of bushes along the path. Witherspoon covered Pick’s body with his own as the cab came to a screeching halt.
“Get in! Get in!” the cabbie yelled through the open window of his cab.
Seeing a gun now clutched in Witherspoon’s hand, pointing right at him from the bushes, Stan yanked the cab’s door open and dove in, hitting the backseat hard with his face.
“Stay down, sir! I get you outta here! Just like in movies! No problem!” The driver throttled the yellow car’s engine. “Oh, shit!” the cabbie yelled.
Stan heard the cab driver’s yelp. In the next moment Stan felt someone jump on his back. Then everything went black.
CHAPTER 40
When Stan regained consciousness, he didn’t know where he was. Stale cigarette smoke stung his nostrils, alternating with the pungent yet unmistakable reek of burned hashish. Dingy and dark, only a sliver of light coming from two small windows—blocked with what looked like large, cardboard boxes stacked floor-to-ceiling—which lit the room. His head throbbed like he’d been beaned by a major league fastball.
Where the hell am I?
Instinctively jerking his limbs, he couldn’t move his arms, legs, or torso. He came to the quick realization he’d been hog-tied to a straight-back wooden chair. Squinting his eyes in the dim light, he recognized the figure across from him, tied-up in a chair as well.
“Hey. Hey.” He called over to the lifeless figure.
The cabbie, dried blood smattered across his face, did not reply.
“What have they done to him? I’ll kill Pick.”
“James?” The voice sounded like it came from behind Stan. “James. It’s me. Are you all right?” Stan didn’t reply, though he recognized the voice. “I’m sorry I had to hit you so hard.”
“That was you that clocked me?” Stan mumbled, cobwebs still clouding his head as he turned, trying to see behind him. “Just who the hell’s side are you on anyway?”
“If I hadn’t knocked you out and you had tried to get away, Pick and Witherspoon would have killed you both. I’m sure of it.” Clayton Thomas walked in front of him into the faint light and pointed to a door about fifteen feet to Stan’s left. He continued in his low voice, “Speak softly. They’re all upstairs.”
“What have they done to the cab driver?” Stan begged his whispered question.
Clayton stepped over to the slumping cabbie and pressed two fingers to his neck. “He’s alive. Thank, God. Pick had some wild idea he was working undercover with you and had Witherspoon work him over pretty good.”
“He was just trying to help me, for crissake.”
“I’m sorry, James. Really. I am.” He leaned over and began to untie Stan’s hands. “But you’ve got to get out of here.”
“Where are we anyway?” Stan looked up, reacting to the foot-steps he heard on the wooden floor above his head.
“In the basement below The Negro League Café.”
“What are
they doing up there?”
“It’s where they run their operation.”
“What operation?” As Clayton loosened the ropes that bound Stan’s feet, the prosecutor rubbed his wrists.
“Their smuggling operation in Arizona. They’ve been running guns into Mexico for a number of years now, trading them for pure meth from Sonora, along with smuggling in the human cargo they use to carry the stuff out of the country for them. That’s why Turner and DeSadier were in Phoenix when you caught them. Those two have been coordinating all the trafficking down there. They’re the guys who set up the deals, move the goods, and run the drop houses.”
Stan struggled to comprehend Clayton’s words, still coming out of his haze. “How did Pick and his gang get involved?”
“It all began when Pick went down to Nogales some time ago on one of his ‘tequila and pussy runs’ as he liked to call them. He discovered how eager the Sinaloan drug cartel was to get the heavy firepower they needed since Mexico’s gun laws are so strict. Pick figured out he could swap guns for meth and make ten times the money he could get for selling the same hardware on the streets of Chicago. He makes hundreds of thousands of dollars on some transactions. I’m sure he’s made millions.” Clayton paused, shaking his head. “Not to mention flooding Chicago’s neighborhoods with high-grade Mexican meth.”
“Where is he getting all of these guns from?”
“That’s a whole other story we don’t have time for.”
“He’s got to be stopped.” Stan tried to push up from the chair but halted. “Ooooh. What the hell did you hit me with? A park bench?” He gingerly rubbed the knot on the back of his head.
“That egg there is the least of your worries. When he finds out you got Pokie and Bobby locked up in Arizona, Pick’ll kill you for sure.”
“He’ll never find out,” Stan replied. “Unless you plan on telling him.”
“Say what? Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with? What’s at stake here, especially for me?”
“Well, I’m not really sure who the bad guy is—you or Pick.”
“You don’t believe me, do you? I’m not the problem. Pick is. This man hasn’t stopped killing for thirty-five years. And he’ll continue to kill until—”
“Until, what?” Stan asked. The rumbling noise from an elevated train filled the dank room, its deafening drone exacerbating the pounding in his aching head.
“You’ve got to get out of here.”
Stan didn’t have the time nor the mental composure to figure out why Clayton evaded his question. He worried, though, about his bound friend across from him and nodded toward the cabbie. “What about the cabbie?”
“I’ll make sure he gets out okay. You’re the bigger worry for me right now.”
Clayton flipped open his cell phone and punched in a number. Stan could hear a woman’s voice answer through the tiny receiver.
“Janeequa,” Clayton said. “Have Tubbs bring the limo over to the alley behind the café. Now!” He turned back to Stan. “As soon as my car gets here, I’m going to go upstairs and talk to them. Follow me. Right outside that door there will be a hallway. Take it down to the stairs at the end. They’ll lead up to a door that exits to the alley. My driver will know where to take you.”
“But Tony Tubbs is your driver!”
“Don’t worry about Tubbs. He’s on my side.”
Stan shook his head in bewilderment, wincing as he looked right at Clayton. “I’m not afraid of Pick, you know. He doesn’t scare me anymore.”
“That may be, but you can’t bring him down alone.”
“I’m glad you brought that up.” Like a good prosecuting attorney, Stan recognized that Clayton had opened a crack in the door. Now was as good a time as any for Stan to present his plan. That’s why he’d come to Chicago, hoping to obtain Clayton’s cooperation and help. Stan knew Clayton’s answer to his idea would tell him once and for all whose side the politician was on. He inched closer to his oldest friend and put his hand on the senator’s shoulder. “Clayton, you’re right. I can’t bring down Pick alone. At least not without your help. I have a plan to bring federal conspiracy charges against Pick and you’re the only one who can testify against him. I need you.”
“What are you saying? Conspiracy charges? Pick’s distanced himself from every transaction south of the border. He’s too smart.”
“I’m not talking about what he’s doing today. I’m talking about conspiracy charges pertaining to the murder of Manny Fleischman and the cover-up that followed.”
“Are you crazy?” Clayton said, pushing Stan’s hand away from his shoulder. “That was thirty years ago. Time’s run out on those charges. Plus, they were found not guilty and they were juveniles. That hit on the head I gave you really did whack you silly, didn’t it?”
“Just listen to me.” Stan jabbed his index finger into Clayton’s chest. “Remember how Fleischman saved me at the park that day when the gang corralled me in the basket, and how because of that Pick planned the attack on Fleischman?
“Yes. So?”
“That’s a conspiracy to commit murder.”
“But they’ve been tried for the murder. Double jeopardy protects them. And, besides, if I remember correctly, isn’t there a statute of limitations on conspiracies?”
“Those points are true. You’re right. But guess what? There’s no statute of limitations if you conspire to commit or cover up a crime when that conspiracy takes place on federal property.”
“Federal property?”
“Do you remember that you told me you were there at the cemetery when the gang planned the Fleischman ambush? And when they met again to cover up their crime? Well, Pick planned the attack and the subsequent concealments in Oak Woods Cemetery at the base of that Confederate burial mound there, right next to the monument.”
“Correct. That’s where the P. Stones held all their secret meetings. They made everyone go. Everyone who attended made a vow of silence about what went on there. That place still gives me the creeps every time I have to go there for a burial,” Clayton said.
“Well that monument is on federal land.” Stan placed his hands on the sides of Clayton’s shoulder and shook him. “You know what this means? We’ve got him. We’ve finally got Pick!”
CHAPTER 41
As soon as the wheels of the plane hit the tarmac at Chicago’s Midway Airport, Brian dialed Stan’s cell number.
“He’s not answering his cell phone, is he?” Maxine asked.
Stan’s in trouble, Brian knew it. Concerned, but calm like a good cop, he nonetheless didn’t want to frighten Maxine. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s fine. He said he’d call us by five local time, just as we planned.” The plane had arrived thirty minutes late so Brian did wonder, though, why there was no indication on his phone of the voice mail notification he expected.
Two days earlier, Stan and Brian had put a hasty plan together of what they needed to accomplish once they arrived in Chicago, the place they hoped to find the firm evidence and the witness needed to bring a federal conspiracy charge against the original members of the Oakwood Rangers. Their plan had Stan leaving on an earlier flight and meeting alone with Senator Clayton R. Thomas, hoping to convince him to be that witness. After Brian tied up some legal loose ends in Arizona, Stan had suggested that he fly to Chicago on the next flight and meet him at the senator’s office. From there, they had planned to visit Oak Woods Cemetery to confirm Barbara Reyes’s discovery of the federal property within the cemetery’s grounds before concluding their trip by meeting with Chicago Police Commander Sal Abbatti at 21st District headquarters.
Maxine’s being in Chicago was never a part of the two men’s plan.
Brian grabbed his and Maxine’s carry-ons and headed for the terminal exit. He scanned up and down the taxi and shuttle bus lanes, looking for the driver scheduled to meet them. A conspicuous, gold Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the outer curb. “That’s him, Max. There’s our ride.”
As Brian spoke t
hose words, a tall, paunchy man emerged from the garish sedan. As he came around the front of his car, the guy shoved his meaty palm at Brian and pumped his hand up and down. “Brian Hanley. How the hell are you, kid?”
“Great, Mister Boscorelli. Just great.”
“Hey! What’s this ‘Mister Boscorelli’ stuff? I told you on the phone, you just call me Timbo,” the ex-cop bellowed, his voice refusing to be drowned out by the surrounding street noise.
“Timbo, this is Maxine Kobe. She’s the wife of my best friend back in Arizona.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Kobe.”
“Please. Call me Maxine.”
“Okey-dokey. Maxine it is.” Timbo tipped the red longshoreman’s cap on his huge head. His massive frame was wrapped in a wrinkled, tan trench coat. “So, Sal Abbatti said you two needed a personal tour of the old stomping grounds. Whadya doin’ kid, one of those genealogical things? Tracin’ your roots are ya?”
“No, no, Timbo. Nothing like that. Maxine’s husband, Stan, is in town for a meeting with Senator Thomas. We’re here to meet Stan and then spend a coupla days in Chicago, seeing the sights.”
“Great. Ya know, Maxine, this is the most beyoodeful city in the world. Ya know that, dontcha? Sears Tower. Michigan Avenue. The Magnificent Mile. The Art Institute. Burnham Park. Yep, beyoodeful. Like the song says, ‘My kinda town.’ “As they stood outside the car, Timbo kept talking, not coming up for a breath. He changed the subject. “I sure hope your husband’s here to talk that nigger senator of ours outta runnin’ for president, though. Last thing this country needs is a spook in the White House. Ya know, they didn’t name it the White House for nothin’.” The ex-cop laughed at his own joke.
Timbo grabbed their carry-ons and put them in the Lincoln’s trunk. As Maxine got into the back of the vehicle on the passenger side of the car, Brian walked behind the car and grabbed Timbo by the sleeve as he placed the bags in the trunk.
