by Thomas Laird
Jimmy’s family had branches that drooped toward the baser elements of society. In other words, his clan had limbs that were rotten. The Parisis were Sicilians on both sides of Jimmy’s family, but they had not taken up the life that some of their direct relatives had. Like media people, Jimmy made use of the mobster side but he felt like he needed a sand blasting every time he milked them for intelligence. Some of the Outfit side loved to talk—but not so much as to incriminate themselves. They were sly, the crooked limbs of the Parisi tree, but they weren’t necessarily intelligent, Jimmy figured. Sometimes you had to get into the gutters, even the sewers, because that was where Homicide was. It didn’t get any lower than unnatural death.
They sat in the Crown Vic. Jimmy Parisi was behind the wheel, but he wanted to let Dani take that position over as soon as possible. He hated driving, and he refused to be involved in high speed chases, if it were at all possible to do so. Doc had been the wheelman until he took the leave of absence.
“This is an Outfit club?” she asked.
He nodded.
“It belongs to Rossi, even though his name isn’t on the actual deed. He has the other guy run the legitimate operation, here. The restaurant and the bar. But he takes the lion’s share of the till.”
“You have ties to these hoods?”
“I might take that as an insult,” he grinned.
“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry.”
“All red men are savages.”
Her eyes were engorged.
He laughed.
“All Italians are in the Mafia.”
Then she figured out her chain was being tugged, and she rested her head back against the passenger’s seat.
“You have a bad temper?” he asked.
“It’s a weakness. I know. I apologize peremptorily.”
“Don’t apologize. Among those assholes inside, it’s a sign of weakness.”
They were parked at the curb. They could see the orange and green glow of the fluorescent sign in the window of the bar-eatery.
The motor was running because it was September, now, and although it was in the first week of the month, the temperature outside was still in the low 90s at eight o’clock at night. So Jimmy was running the AC at full blast. It was a battle to keep the high humidity at bay.
“What are you heeled with?” he asked.
“The usual .38 Special. Why?”
“No standby piece?”
“No. Why? That’s not department policy, the extra gun, is it?”
“Fuck department policy when it comes to weapons. These motherfuckers don’t have restrictions, but they have better weapons than we do. Look into an ankle holster. And strap a blade to your ankle. If it’s uncomfortable on your ankle, start carrying a bag. It won’t make you look weak. These dicks’ll know you’re carrying, inside it.”
“You make it sound like it’s combat.”
“Well? Your point is?” he grinned again.
CHAPTER SIX
Anthony Joseph Michael Calabrese had gout. He had hypertension. He had sleep apnea. And, finally, his dick didn’t work, either. The man was a calamity of illnesses and physical annoyances.
The fact that his pecker no longer operated efficiently didn’t stop his attraction to young women, however. He liked to watch them pleasure themselves, and although he didn’t get off, it satisfied something inside himself to be a voyeur. Movies didn’t do the trick; he required live action, and sometimes he had two young girls—preferably younger than sixteen—do exotic things to each other. It was a dangerous act he did by enlisting underage females to fulfill his twisted- pretzel desires, but Calabrese had enough cash and clout to keep the wolves with badges away from his door. If you had money, you could buy anything.
The unions and drugs had been good to the Boss. The whores contributed, also. He ran a sidelight of assassination, as well, and he’d been accused by some federal police of causing the death of John F. Kennedy by severe lead poisoning. But the feds could never seem to get the goods, or a witness, on Tony C.
He was a hood almost the moment his mother spat him out of her womb. As soon as he could walk, he could also relieve you of your possessions. There were no records of his attending any level of school in Chicago, but he could read and write. And he had extreme street smarts. He was oily enough to have never spent a day in jail, and in the Outfit, getting pinched was a prerequisite for living the life. Yet he had escaped incarceration, and the old bastard was seventy. Tony C had outlived all the thugs he came of age with, in Chicago. He was obviously a survivor, but he had done far more than survive. He had flourished. He came up as a bodyguard for Capone, but he was behind the scenes in Al’s departure to prison, courtesy of the IRS. Calabrese knew that the legend of Eliot Ness and ‘The Untouchables’ was just that, a fable, a fairytale for TV and the movies. The bean counters did away with Scarface, and syphilis finished the job after they let Capone loose.
The young girls seemed to sustain him, somehow. It was just about all he had to look forward to, except death, and he wasn’t too set on greeting the Reaper, just yet. There was more money to make, more vendettas to settle. There was a list of guys he wanted morte before he succumbed to that puta, mortality.
On top of the list was Ben Rossi, the guy who thought he was the heir apparent. That was in Rossi’s mind only, according to Tony C. He never liked that motherfucker. Rossi was always the biggest earner, the most violent and uncontrollable associate in the Outfit. And he was the slyest, as well. All of those traits he had, except the earner, were on the debit side, for Calabrese. The only thing keeping that Cicero hood alive was his ability to drag in the chips. There was no doubt he was the most profitable capo. But he did ruthless shit—like killing the neighbor who accidentally ran over his kid. Tony C thought he might have kicked the hell out of the neighbor, but whacking him was too much. It brought about too much attention from the media.
And Calabrese got word that a Homicide dick named Parisi was now involved. This Italian cop had a rep, and everyone in the Outfit knew him. They all hated him, of course, because he was an Italian who didn’t take money, and Parisi had put several associates in the pen for life sentences. No, they hated him, but they respected him. Respect and fear were the same thing, in Tony C’s head.
It was all because of this loose cannon, Ben Rossi. Calabrese would have loved to have had him dispatched, but, again, he was a solid earner, and also it was messy taking out a made Sicilian. The Outfit had non-Italian associates, but if you were from the island, you still commanded respect.
They sat at the table in Tony C’s estate in Lake Forest. It wasn’t a house. It was one of those gigantic constructions that sat on several lakeshore acres. Calabrese knew that his neighbors despised him because this territory was mostly occupied by the old rich of Chicago. The others were third or fourth generation descendants of doctors and lawyers and entrepreneurs who’d handed down their stash for generations. Anthony Calabrese was new rich, a sort of Jay Gatsby who was never invited to the illustrious mansions that surrounded Tony C’s enormous house. It looked like some mini castle straight out of Normandy, but his neighbors all thought it was vulgar because the owner was a gangster and therefore a member of the great unwashed. And being Italian offended their delicate WASPish sensibilities.
The table was long and rectangular and mahogany. The chairs were erect and made of the same expensive wood. The dark finish shone in a rich luster. The associates sitting opposite Calabrese were Carlo Bonadura, Giacomo Bertelli, and Petey (Vito) Carbone. All of them were capos, captains, and this was a war council. The topic was what to do with Ben Rossi.
Carbone was a skinny, frail man of forty-seven. He rather resembled Frank Sinatra in his twenties, but you could tell Carbone’s age in his sickly face. It was suspected he had cancer and wasn’t telling anyone about the disease that was wasting him. But no one doubted Vito Carbone’s ferocity. The tales were legendary about what happened to anyone who stole from him or crossed him.
Carbone stood up, abruptly.
“I say we liquidate the cocksucker.”
Everyone laughed, except Tony C.
“You know he’s a made man, and he’s from the island. He was actually born there, just like his parents,” Calabrese warned.
“With all due respect, Boss,” Carbone countered, still standing. “The fuckin’ guy is an embarrassment. He takes out a neighbor, and everybody knows he made the call. And now they got this bulldog, this Parisi, on his ass. I don’t see a happy ending.”
Carbone sat back down.
Giacomo Bertelli rose. He was the diametric opposite of the weak-looking Vito Carbone. Joe, as he was called, was tall, slender, athletic, and had Hollywood good looks. The women slobbered over him. The whores he ran couldn’t get enough, and his wife Rose was left exhausted five or six nights a week because of his sexual prowess. But better than good looks was cunning, and Joe had more than his share of brains. He didn’t whack anyone unless it was absolutely imperative to do so. He used his head, instead, and would’ve been a superior chess player if he’d known how to play the game. Giacomo was not interested in board games or in games of any kind. He was obsessed with profit, and he was nearly the earner that Ben Rossi was. But not quite. Bertelli had no affection for Benny Bats.
He was dressed in a six thousand dollar English suit, handmade for him in London. The shoes were Italian and went for $2500. The socks on his feet would have paid for a good steak, downtown. He had the requisite diamond pinkie ring to complete his ensemble.
“You can’t kill him. But you can help that Parisi cop get enough information to get him prosecuted.”
“Whatever happened to omerta?” the Boss asked.
“No offense, Tony C, but times are changing. We all know that the fine art of ratting one’s associates out has put a lot of our good friends in state facilities for long stretches. I’m not saying anyone in this room practices such betrayals, but we’re confronted with a very unique situation. And that motherfucker Rossi would have no problem stabbing anyone in this room in the back. It’s common knowledge that he seeks that chair you’re sitting on, Boss.”
Bertelli sat back down.
It was Carlo Bonadura’s turn. He had the thick neck of a wrestler, and he also had the wide shoulders, as well. His bald spot was on top of his head, but thick hair covered the rest of his noggin. He was not a cosmetic work of art, like Bertelli, but his look was fierce, frightening. Everyone truly feared Carlo, but they admired his loyalty to the crew, to the Outfit. He had never betrayed any of the capos or the Boss, sitting here in this dining room in Lake Forest amidst the trees and the scenic vista of Lake Michigan, just a few blocks to the east of them.
“This is self, defense, Tony C. When a guy threatens us all, we gotta go past the rules of the thirties and forties. The old-timers are dead, they’re dust. We gotta survive, or all this talk about omerta is gonna get us killed or slapped into the joint for life. Rossi don’t play by the rules, so we can’t play nice, Anthony.”
They were done talking, so Carlo sat down and exhaled heavily.
“So,” Calabrese said, his palms extended against the mahogany slab. “What’re we going to do with this Benny Bats son of a bitch?”
*
When you tore down a house, you had to do it board by board. Unless you had a bulldozer.
Mark Johansen didn’t have an army, but Rossi did. So it was piece by piece. And the primary pieces were Fortunato and Cabretta, and Mark thought that Cabretta would be the better target to begin with.
Johansen spent the better part of a week tailing the taller Outfit thug. He wanted to see where Cabretta lived, the people he associated with, perhaps find out what his weaknesses were. And Vince’s weakness was women. It was always one of three things, Johansen knew—women or booze or drugs. He’d heard that the Outfit prohibited drugs and booze, so he checked out the remaining possibility.
Cooze.
If a man had to have it regularly, his movements became predictable. So Mark waited until Cabretta lighted at the same address three times in that one week of surveillance. It was a three-flat on Sheridan Road, not far from the lake. After Vince Cabretta went inside the dwelling for the trifecta, Johansen followed him, after the Outfit hitman had time to ascend to wherever he was headed. There were three names on the mailboxes, and only one was female. It was the second-floor apartment, and her name was Loretta Dobbs.
Johansen climbed the stairs to the second level, and then he put his ear to the door. Apparently, Vince wasted no time in becoming romantic. He could hear moans that were loud enough for him to pick up on the other side of the entry.
Mark tapped on the door three times. It became silent inside. Then he tapped thrice again.
“Who the fuck is it?” a male voice demanded.
“Landlord. Got a package for Loretta. Sorry to bother you, but the UPS guy just laid it in the foyer.”
When Cabretta cracked the door open, with chain still attached, Johansen put his foot to the entry with full force, causing the slab of heavy wood to slam into Vince Cabretta’s forehead, causing him to fly backward, causing the back of his head to meet the tile of the kitchen-dining room to smack said skull with extreme prejudice, and finally rendering the mobster semi-conscious.
Loretta screamed, but before she knew it, Mark Johansen had knocked her senseless onto the same tile via a vicious straight right to the temple. Mark hoisted the inert Outfit goon onto his right shoulder and hauled him downstairs. It was a moonless night, it was past midnight, and there were no pain in the ass pedestrians on the sidewalk out front. Johansen popped the trunk of his Buick and deposited Cabretta inside. Then he opened a gym bag that sat next to the still knocked out hitman, and he retrieved a vial and a syringe. He put the needle through the membrane of the vial, and then he stuck the tip into Vince’s thigh. Cabretta would have dreamless sleep, all the way to Sawyer, Michigan.
*
“Hello, Vince.”
Cabretta was strapped to a straight-backed metallic chair. The strapping was duct tape, and Vince could not move his torso or his limbs. He figured this guy who’d snatched him really knew his shit. Cabretta had only been on the giving end of this abuse, prior to now.
His mouth was sealed, and he had a little trouble breathing.
Then he saw the straight razor in the hand of his assailant. This guy had a very GI haircut, and Vince figured him for military. And he thought he might have been from some elite crew in that same military because of the way he’d handled himself.
He wondered if Loretta was still breathing. He’d be awfully disappointed with this soldier if that squeeze of his were dead.
But he couldn’t complain because of the duct tape in front of his mouth.
Then he focused on the hand with the straight razor.
“I’m going to work my way to your balls, Vince. But it doesn’t have to go that far. First I’ll start with your eyelid. I think the right one will be the initial slice. If I let you live, maybe a plastic surgeon can fix you, but I’m pretty sure you’ll be blind in at least one eye.”
He let the light create a flash from the blade.
“Scared of sharp knives, Vince? You ought to be.”
The reflection blinded Cabretta momentarily.
“Oh, yeah. You probably want to know why I’m doing this to you. It’s because you and that other piece of shit, Fortunato, murdered my brother David. And you’ve probably figured out that I’m not going to let you live, either. But there are worse things than dying, buddy. Let me tell you. In Asia, it’s an art form, seeing how long you can torture someone without actually killing them. They’re quite expert at it in Southeast Asia. Great imaginations, they have. A bit sadistic, but that’s part of the deal.
“You’re going to tell me that you killed David, and you’re going to tell me all about Fortunato, who gets to meet this razor, next. It’s all inevitable. And your boss gets his, last. But I want to know all about Fortunato and Rossi. See, this
is what they call intel, in the military. You’re going to make my job easier. That’s why you’re here.
“There won’t be any mercy for you in all this except for how quickly you die. The sooner you tell me what I want to know, the quicker I set your soul free…You know that song by Crosby, Stills, and Nash? ‘Woodstock,’ I think it was.
“You look like it’s going to take a long time, Vince. Looks like you think you’re a tough guy and you’re going to try to take the pain. Let me tell you. Not gonna happen.”
Johansen flicked the edge of the razor in a vertical slash down Cabretta’s right eyelid, and his eyeball was exposed, and the blood literally jumped out of Vince’s flesh.
Mark heard the muffled shriek, and he thought the gangster might pass out, but after the blood stopped squirting out so rapidly, he took Cabretta by the hair and shook his head into consciousness.
“No, no. You have to stay awake. You want to talk to me, now? I’ll stop the bleeding if you do. I don’t want you going into shock. We’re nowhere near the end. You’ve got lots more blood left in your tank. You’d be surprised what a stockpile of that shit the human body contains.
“I saw my brother in his coffin. He looked at peace. You choked him, asphyxiated him, right?”
Mark yanked his head by the hair in the affirmative.
“Want me to take off the tape so you can talk to me?”
Vince shot Johansen a glare with his one good eye.
“No, huh.”
Mark flicked the razor again, and the opposite eyelid was ruined, and again the gore flooded Cabretta’s face.
“I got all day. And all night. How much farther you want to go, Vince? You won’t have much of a mug left for Loretta. And then I haven’t even begun to cut down south on you, yet.
“My brother had two little girls and a wife. You cocksuckers stole their father. But that doesn’t effect a killer like you, does it. It’s going to get much worse. Much worse than you can imagine in that dim bulb brain of yours. I’ve seen scenes like this go on for two days, but inevitably they all give it up. Just think, I’m going to be gentler with you and your partner Fortunato than I am with your Boss. Can you even feature any of that Vincent?”