by Pascal Marco
“It is. We saw it when we arrived—”
“Who’s we?” Clayton asked.
Brian didn’t answer. Stan looked at Brian, waiting for him to continue.
“Bri?”
Brian wouldn’t look at him.
“No, Brian. You didn’t? You didn’t let Maxine—”
“Did you say Maxine?” Clayton interrupted. “His wife? She’s here with you?”
Brian nodded.
“Brian, how could you? How could—?”
Brian interrupted him.
“She just showed up at the airport. She had a ticket. What could I do?”
Sounding panicked, Stan asked, “Where is she now?”
“She’s sitting at the bar, waiting for me to come back from the john.”
“You mean you left her alone up there with Pick and his men?” Stan cried.
“Oh, no,” Clayton said, rushing past Stan toward the stairs.
“What?” Stan asked as the senator brushed by him.
“Pick knows her,” he cried. “He knows what she looks like!”
Before Clayton could reach the bottom of the steps, a voice bellowed, bouncing off the stairway walls, echoing into the basement through the still open door. “That’s right, Clayton. I do know what she looks like.”
Pick flipped a light switch on the wall and entered the room. Walking behind him was Maxine, followed by Tyrone Witherspoon who held a Colt.45 against her head.
Brian slid his hand under his jacket, but Pick interrupted his movement. “I suggest you not reach for your weapon, Mr. Import-Export,” Pick calmly told him, nodding back toward Tyrone and Maxine. “Lest you risk my friend here harmin’ the bitch.”
Brian froze.
“Thank you. Now, take your piece out, very carefully.”
Stan stood motionless, knowing that the last thing any cop would do is willingly give up his service revolver. He wasn’t sure what Brian would do, but Stan knew Brian was an expert marksman. He hoped if he fired his weapon, he’d blast Witherspoon right between the eyes, allowing him to lunge for Pick. As these thoughts whirred through his mind, Brian drew his firearm slowly out from the holster under his jacket and held it with two fingers, dangling the gun in the air.
“Brian! What are you doing? Shoot him! Shoot the son of a bitch!”
“That’s a very bad idea, James,” Pick advised. “Just do as I said and drop your weapon to the floor and kick it over here.”
Brian did as told.
“Smart man,” Pick said.
Stan looked at Brian, shaking his head with a disapproving face.
Pick nodded to Witherspoon who bent down and picked up Brian’s gun, stuffing the cop’s steel sidearm into the front of his pants. As he did, Pick grabbed Maxine and shoved her hard toward the rest of the group. She stumbled, falling into Stan’s arms.
“Did he hurt you?” Stan brushed his wife’s hair back, inspecting her face.
Maxine shook her head.
“Why would I want to hurt that pretty little honky wife of yours? ‘Specially with an ass as fine as—”
Stan lunged toward Pick, but Brian intercepted him, throwing his arms around his buddy. Pick had already flicked his six-inch blade open. He pointed it now in Stan’s direction.
“Let him go,” Pick ordered. “Been waiting to Popeil this little motherfucker for thirty years. Slice and dice him ‘til no one recognizes him.”
“Let me go! Let me go! I want to kill him.” Stan struggled with his friend, but Brian tightened his grip. “You didn’t have the nerve to shoot him so let me kill him!”
“Not now,” Brian said. He lowered his voice and whispered to Stan. “Not now.”
“Your friend’s smart, James. It’s good to surround yourself with smart friends. Like me and ol’ Clayton here.” Pick walked around to the senator and wrapped his arm around Clayton’s shoulder, pulling him close to him, still brandishing his knife. “Ain’t that right, Senator?”
“Take your filthy hands off me,” Clayton said, pushing away from him.
“Whoa, big fella. What’s gotten into you? Did you spend too much time down here with your long-lost pal, James?” He turned and tapped the point of his sharp stiletto against Stan’s shoulder. Then, turning back to the senator, Pick prodded him. “You’re still my nigger, ain’t you?”
Clayton didn’t reply.
Pick looked at Witherspoon, who aimed his gun at the group. “I think our boy Clayton here might need a little attitude adjustment.” He turned back to Clayton. “How ‘bout it, Clayton? Been a long time since my boy Tyrone here gave you a good ass whoopin’.”
“Go ahead, but I’m done doing your bidding, Pick.”
“That’s big talk from a man who’s in no position to bargain,” Pick told the senator. “You seem to forget our little arrangement, our little agreement. What if it ever got out to the press it’s been you who’s been helping me all this time run guns into Mexico. Making sure all your committees in Washington are looking the wrong way. You seem to forget it’s me who’s holding all the cards.”
“You can’t hurt me anymore.”
“Is that right? Well, it would sure be a shame, a damn shame, if that pretty little niece or that beautiful wife of yours ran into someone, late at night, with a blade just like this and had their pretty little faces all carved up.” He dragged the blunt edge of his blade slowly across the senator’s face. “Wouldn’t it now?”
“I’m through with your threats. It’s over. Your game is up. You’re going down and I don’t care if it means I go with you.”
“So you’re willing to throw it all away? For what? For this little squealer friend of yours?” Pick switched his knife closed and grabbed Clayton by his suit coat lapels, then pinched his thumb and index fingers together in front of Clayton’s face. “We are this close, brother.” Pick motioned with his head at Stan, still wrapped in Brian’s clench. “This man can do us no harm.”
“Yes he can! James is going to bring charges against you again for Fleischman’s murder,” Clayton blurted.
“He is, is he? For that old Jew we stomped thirty fuckin’ years ago? Is that right?” Releasing Clayton from his grip, Pick turned to Stan and chuckled. “Did the heat get to you down there in Arizona or something? Just what did they teach you in that two-bit law school down there? Double jeopardy’s in place here, my friend. And besides, we were all juveniles. All our records are sealed shut.”
“Federal charges,” Stan said back at him.
“Federal charges? Where in the hell did you come up with that one, Mr. Arizona Prosecutor?”
“That’s right. Federal conspiracy charges,” Stan said. “You planned Fleischman’s murder and the cover-up at the base of the Confederate Monument in Oak Woods Cemetery.”
“That memorial was and still is on federal land. President Cleveland dedicated it back in eighteen ninety-five. But I’m sure you knew that, being a student of history and all,” Maxine scoffed at Pick.
“Don’t smart mouth me, bitch, or I’ll give you the slap you deserve.”
Brian put a firm hand on Stan’s shoulder as Clayton stepped in front of Stan. “All James needs is a cooperating witness and I’m his man.”
“Is that right?” Pick said, glaring into the senator’s face. “And what if this so-called cooperating witness just happens to have a very bad accident, maybe on one o’ his last-minute junkets down to Cancun for some of that Mexican pussy he loves so much?”
“Your threats are useless. James’s people have Turner and DeSadier in custody in Arizona,” Clayton said. “They’ve probably already flipped on you, just like they did when we were kids, after you killed Manny Fleischman. Those two losers are probably singing like birds down there right now.” Clayton pointed in Pick’s face. “It’s over! You’re through!”
“What’s this jive-ass double-talkin’ politician spewin’ about?” Pick shouted as he whipped his head at Witherspoon. There was no misinterpreting the anger in Pick’s voice as he heard Clay
ton’s claim that Pokie Turner and Bobby DeSadier were in custody in Arizona. “Have we heard back from those two fools yet?”
Witherspoon shook his head.
Pick then turned back to Clayton. “If this turns out to be some trick, I’ll make sure to kill the bitch first—that is—after I fuck that pretty little ass o’ hers right in front of my boy James here.” Pick turned back to Witherspoon and shouted an order. “Stay with them while I go upstairs and find out what all this bullshit is about with Pokie and Bobby.”
Pick turned and walked up the stairwell. When he got to the top a man’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Where the fuck you goin’, you skinny little prick?”
CHAPTER 44
As dusk waned, the black vehicle meandered through the quickly darkening streets of Chicago. Stan sat in the middle of the backseat, flanked by Brian and Maxine, whose head rested on Stan’s shoulder, eyes closed. Across from them sat Tyrone Witherspoon, holding his gun on the trio. The still-unconscious cab driver leaned against Senator Clayton Thomas, who sat on the seat next to Witherspoon in the rear of the stretch limo.
The long car slowed as the driver exited a side street and turned on to a narrow asphalt driveway. A pair of matching, twelve-foot-high brick pillars bordered the entrance, gargoyles perched on their respective tops. Six-foot-wide sides of opened, wrought iron gates were attached to each column. A brass sign on the front of each of the man-made sentinels guarding the entrance, displayed the words: oak woods cemetery.
As the vehicle wheeled past the entrance and around the first curve, it proceeded on for a few more minutes, following the winding road before finally coming to a full stop.
“Where are we?” Maxine asked, picking up her head.
Witherspoon glared over at her when she spoke. “A place you’ll feel real comfortable in real soon,” he responded. “Now, don’t nobody move or get any ideas.” Getting out of the car, Witherspoon pointed his weapon back at Brian. “‘Specially you, pig.” The thug slammed the door behind him, leaving the five of them alone in the back of the limo.
Headlights from a car behind switched off.
“There must be someone else with them,” Stan said.
“Yeah, I noticed a pair of headlights following us, too, ever since we left the café,” said Brian.
“Clayton, do you know why they’ve taken us here?” Stan asked.
Clayton shook his head.
“What better place than this for getting rid of a few bodies?” Brian replied.
“Pick wouldn’t kill us unless he created an alibi first.” Stan said.
“I’m not sure he’s thinking rationally any more,” offered Clayton. “He’ll do anything to protect the empire he’s built and get me into the White House. Anything.”
Stan squeezed his wife’s hand. “Nothing’s going to happen to us.” Stan pulled his hand away from hers and began cracking his knuckles. “Nothing. I’ll make sure of that.”
“So what do you propose? A chat over a cup of coffee with these guys?” asked Brian. “I think we’re a little bit past that stage.”
“We wouldn’t be in this mess right now if—”
“If what?”
“If you hadn’t let Maxine come along!”
“Stan!” Maxine jumped in. “Brian couldn’t stop me. Nothing would’ve stopped me from coming to Chicago to help you.”
“He had his chance back in the basement. He could have shot Witherspoon,” Stan charged, sounding frazzled.
“It wasn’t the right opportunity. There was too much room for error. What if I missed?” Brian said.
“Well, I’m not going to just stand idly by. I’m going to do something.”
“James, don’t be a fool and try to do something heroic,” said Clayton. “This man will kill you without flinching.”
Stan shot back. “Listen. It’s because of me we’re all in this mess.” He looked at the cabbie who, regaining consciousness, began rubbing his head. “Even this poor guy’s an innocent victim.” He squeezed his wife’s hand again. “And I’m certainly not going to let Pick harm Maxine.” He paused, then looked at the group. “I’m the only one who can bring an end to this.”
“Don’t you think you ought to tell us your plan, James, before you go executing it?” asked Clayton.
“Well, I can’t just yet because I’m not quite sure what—”
“Stanford Kobe,” Maxine said. “Don’t go trying to be a hero.”
He squeezed her hard then pulled away. “Maxine. I have to do this. It’s the only way to get us all out of here alive. That’s all that matters now.”
“There’s only one way we’re all going to get out of here alive,” she said, “and that’s if Pick is distracted long enough for you guys to overpower Witherspoon.”
“What do you have in mind?” Clayton asked.
“Pick wants his way with me. If I can get him alone, in the limo here, just for a few min—”
“No!” Stan shouted. “What are you saying? There’s no way I’d allow that. No way I’d let him touch you—”
“Stan. I love you. Nothing will ever change that. Nothing.”
The door to the car snapped open.
“All of you. Out! Now!” Witherspoon shouted, gesturing the instruction with the barrel of his handgun through the open door.
“What about the cabbie?” Clayton asked.
“Him, too. Pick wants all of you. Now.”
Brian and Clayton helped the shaky cab driver, grabbing him under his arms and pulling him out of the limo. Stan and Maxine followed, Witherspoon shoving them from behind.
“There. Get over there.” He pointed again with his gun.
A bright full moon peeked through the scattered clouds of the cool autumn evening, revealing a huge structure standing in the middle of a grassy mound where Witherspoon had pointed. The structure’s base was formed by a massive limestone foundation about twenty feet square. One ancient-looking cannon sat at each of the four corners of this stone base whose slanted walls held large brass plates. Closer inspection of the panels would reveal the listing of thousands of names of deceased Confederate soldiers honored by the stark memorial under which they were buried.
As well, a line of small, white tombstones ran in a straight row on one side of the monument. Each represented the twelve Union soldiers who rested among their enemy brethren. These white headstones looked like pawns, protecting the figure of a soldier perched on the very top of a single pillar that rose from the base forty feet skyward.
“It’s the Confederate Mound,” Maxine whispered to her husband. “The one Barbara Reyes discovered.”
Stan wished for a moment that he had never seen Barbara Reyes’s notes. He thought about how finding out about this place was the impetus for devising his and Brian’s plan to bring federal conspiracy charges against the former members of the Oakwood Rangers gang. He questioned himself, wondering what would have made him believe that he could go back in time and right the wrongs of the past. All I’ve done is put all their lives in danger.
As the five hostages walked toward the statue, Stan moved up alongside Clayton.
“This is it, isn’t it?” Stan whispered. “The place where you heard them make their plans to kill Mister Fleischman and then cover it up.”
Clayton nodded.
“It all stops here and now, Clayton. It ends tonight.”
CHAPTER 45
As the five captives walked toward the Confederate Mound with Witherspoon pointing a gun at their backs, two men emerged from behind the huge, stone base of the monument. One was Pick. The other was a small stocky man in a Chicago policeman’s uniform.
The policeman spoke first, breaking the eerie silence of the macabre scene. “You just couldn’t let this die, couldja, kid?”
Epaulets on the shoulder of the man’s uniform bore gold oak leaf. Gold oak leaves also adorned the top of the shiny, patent leather brim of his Chicago cop’s dress hat. He didn’t carry a weapon, but a Motorola police radio hung from h
is belt. Festooned on the right breast of his blue blazer were three rows of commendation ribbons, an ostensible representation of the man’s many years of service in law enforcement. Over his left breast, he wore an engraved brass nameplate. It read: abbatti.
“Sal?” The name barely escaped Brian’s mouth.
“Who the fuck joo expect? Maybe you thought you were gonna see your old man’s ghost here?” Abbatti snapped.
“Sal Abbatti?” Stan’s voice rose. “What’s going on here?”
“And you. You just couldn’t let the dead rest in peace. Couldja?” said Abbatti again, looking at Stan.
“What are you talking about?”
“Manny Fleischman. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Rest in peace? Is that what you call it? Resting in peace?”
“It’s been over thirty years, James,” the police commander said. He then began to pace back and forth in front of the group, parallel to the base of the monument. Darkness engulfed them now as the moon dipped behind the cold-looking autumn clouds, backlighting them. The air filled with a moist chill. He stopped his pacing in front of Brian and turned to the group. “When you called me, Brian, and told me about having Turner and DeSadier in your custody, I knew you’d start fuckin’ snooping, especially when you told me your suspicions that Mister James Overstreet here got wind of who they were.” Abbatti looked at Stan and sneered again at him. “Who could have ever guessed Stick Hanley’s kid and you would cross paths in Arizona and start working together in law enforcement? I sure couldn’t. What the fuck are the chances of that happening, I asked myself, a fuckin’ million to one?”
“Ten fuckin’ million to one,” said Pick, eyeing Maxine up and down as he fingered his open switchblade.
“Shut the fuck up. If you had control of those two dogs Turner and DeSadier, they wouldn’t be fuckin’ incarcerated in a fuckin’ Indian jail in fuckin’ Arizona. And I wouldn’t even have to be here to clean up this fuckin’ mess.”
