by Lee Thomas
The man sat tied to a sturdy wooden chair. He was short and round and fat with a thick pelt of hair covering his belly and his chest. The shrub at his crotch was so thick that the man’s meager sexual apparatus was all but obscured. He tried to keep his eyes on Rabin, but the lids drooped from exhaustion and pain. His head lolled. Disappointing, really. Rabin had hoped to spend a few more days in his company. The only benefit to his wife’s affliction was a level of privacy with which he could explore his craft more fully. But like the carnations in Irene’s room, the man wilted. Bruises stained his neck and shoulders. Tiny cuts ran like ruler marks along his hairy upper arms. Blood had seeped from one to the next like a marble water installation Rabin had seen in New York many years before.
His name was Barney. Hardly of any importance. He was a numbers man whose numbers didn’t add up. Normally, such a meaningless specimen would get a bullet to the brain and cease being a problem once they hoisted his bulk from the sidewalk, but Barney had connections that went higher than Impelliteri, which was why he’d assumed his theft would be overlooked. Marco Impelliteri overlooked nothing. Not a ledger page, not a slight. The man wanted his ducks in a row. It made them easier to shoot. Impelliteri did know how to cover his tracks, though. Instead of a public execution, a common enough warning to the other Southside scavengers, Barney would disappear along with a sum of cash sufficient to imply an early retirement. The questions would be few. The rumors unsustainable.
Rabin crossed to the chair and placed his hand on the man’s forehead as he’d done with his wife only two hours before. Beneath his palm, dry red eyes pleaded with him. Barney mumbled something into his gag, and then Rabin stepped behind him. He stroked the man’s bald pate a single time and then grasped his forehead firmly. Applying all of his strength, he yanked the head back as he drove the ice pick through the base of Barney’s skull, and then he waited for the convulsions to cease before smoothing the hairs over the seeping wound.
Once the fine texture of the hair became thoroughly damp and matted with blood, Rabin stopped petting and stepped away. He crossed to a faucet, which jutted from the wall, suspended over one of two large drains he’d found intriguing when first viewing the house. He rinsed his hands in the icy water, and then dried them on a towel. As he did so, he checked his shirt and suit trousers for spots of blood but found the fabrics unblemished. Satisfied, he returned to the alcove and his comfortable chair. Rabin drew the envelope from his desk. He opened it. Then he began to read everything the Chicago police knew about Butch Cardinal.
Chapter 8
Mumbo Jumbo
Roger Lennon had arrived at the station with a sense of relief, having an excuse to be out of the house and away from rooms full of exaggerated concern, but when he’d received his orders, his good mood rapidly eroded. Because of his doctor’s report, Lennon would be on desk duty for a week, and possibly longer, pending a follow-up examination. So instead of sitting at home with Edie eyeing him and asking him how he felt every goddamn minute, he had to sit in the smoke-filled office, reading reports that had already been compiled, congratulating his colleagues on cases that had been solved without him, and hearing about the action on the streets.
These days there was plenty of it.
Musante’s murder had sparked a street war between the Northside and the Southside gangs. So far, there had only been two fatalities. Unfortunately both victims were bystanders, but last night two gunmen had sprayed the front of Elysium with their tommys and the doorman had only managed to save his ass by diving behind a concrete planter. Cardinal had worked the door at Elysium, so the message wasn’t exactly subtle.
Lennon leaned back in his chair. He still couldn’t remember much about the night at Musante’s. Something about Conrad’s story didn’t click with Lennon but he couldn’t pinpoint it. Add to that the fact that Cardinal made an unlikely shooter, based on what Lennon had read in the wrestler’s file, and the day’s frustration just grew thicker.
He had no doubt that a man with Cardinal’s background could kill. That wasn’t the issue for Lennon. He’d seen fairy lounge singers go blood crazy because their dope supply was running low, and he’d seen fine and proper housewives busted in warehouse brothels with their asses in the air because they wanted bigger iceboxes or a string of pearls. Nothing a person did surprised him, but the syndicates weren’t people. They behaved with a far more predictable logic, and using a high-profile guy like Cardinal to hit a smalltimer like Musante—a geezer any kid with a .38 could pop—made no sense. Of course Cardinal could have been flying solo, but what was his beef?
Which led Lennon to his next question: who the hell was Lonnie Musante anyway? Why wasn’t that file on his desk? Anyone who’d spent real time on Impelliteri’s crew had a record. Even if the geezer had managed to avoid a rap sheet, there should have been a background file accompanying Cardinal’s. A coroner’s report. Something. Conrad was out, probably stuffing his face, so Lennon checked the man’s desk, pushing aside piles of papers that should have been filed weeks ago. When this turned up nothing, he walked across the station to his sergeant’s desk.
“I’m looking for a file on Lonnie Musante.”
“Conrad may have it,” Palmer said, gruffly as if his time were too valuable to be wasted on his job.
“It’s not on his desk.”
“Maybe he took it home.”
“Conrad doesn’t take work home.”
“Then it’s a mystery. Don’t detectives solve those?”
“Fuck off, Palmer.”
“Kiss me first.”
On his way back to his desk, he waved a rookie uniform over and told the kid to run down to records to see what he could bring back on Musante. He also wanted whatever they had on file for Cardinal. Then Lennon went into his office and made a phone call.
All the paperwork in the world wasn’t likely to get him close to an answer, but every now and then useful information showed through the dreary veneers. More times than not, the real information, the raw skinny, came from the streets, and Lennon was more than happy to dredge the gutters for bits of shiny fact, even if he had to wade through filth to get it. Which was the only reason he was making an appointment with a man he so thoroughly loathed.
“Hey, Valentino,” Lennon said. “I need a word.”
“Is this Lennon?”
“Yeah.”
“Heard you took a good knock. Went out like a kitten.”
“I’d be glad to discuss that face to face.”
“Can’t do it, Lennon.”
“And then I say, you will, and then you say, there’s no way, and then I remind you of all the prison time you could do and you whimper and grumble and we dance for five minutes on the phone, and I don’t have the patience for that shit, so meet me at Cucina Napoli in thirty minutes or all of the bad things I always have to threaten will happen.”
“I hate you, Lennon.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” he said and hung up the phone.
• • •
Cucina Napoli was an upscale Italian eatery with the best pasta in Chicago, and an extensive wine list available to patrons who could afford to eat in one of four private dining rooms. The restaurant catered to a clientele certain to be discreet about the serving of spirited beverages, as the customers were the men who profited from their distribution. Lennon was led to a booth at the back of the restaurant, near the kitchen. He always got lousy tables when he came in, but he always got seated, even if the lobby was swarmed. The place had red velvet wallpaper and white tablecloths and tiny lanterns—wicks burning in oil—in lieu of candles.
Henri Fiori arrived ten minutes after Lennon. Fiori was a Corsican who passed for Italian. He was uncommonly handsome, if on the feminine side, which was how he’d earned the nickname Valentino. Despite having a soft and pretty face and mannerisms not altogether masculine, Valentino was no fairy. He had been considered a prize by the socialite ladies of whom he’d made a career. These days his addictions to opium and cocaine were dr
awing deep and dark lines across his face, but in dim light, like the restaurant’s, he still carried a movie star patina.
For the most part, Lennon despised the man and his vices. The gigolo was a dope fiend and a gambler, and he tossed other people’s cash around like rose petals in a ritual of constant seduction like a charming virus that had stricken Chicago years ago and continued to infect. But he was useful.
“I really do have some place to be,” Valentino said, sliding into the booth across from Lennon.
“Then let’s not waste our time together. Tell me about Lonnie Musante.”
Valentino laughed and shook his head. “Are you off your nut? Why would you care about a freak like Lon?”
“Well someone must care. Your boss declared war on the Bug’s crew because Lonnie was killed.”
“A baby cries if you take away a toy, even if he doesn’t like playing with it anymore.”
“What did Musante do for Impelliteri? Or was he lined up with Ricca and Nitti?”
“He was all Marco’s,” Valentino said. He peered around the restaurant. “He gave everybody the jimjams. For that matter, he gave Marco the jimjams, but they had a history. I need a drink.” When this statement didn’t make a server magically appear, Valentino slid from the booth and walked to a plump waiter with a fringe of gray over his ears. He spoke, laughed, pointed at Lennon, clapped the waiter on the back, and then returned to the table. “You’d think a place that charged so much for a plate of spaghetti would be on the ball.”
“You said Musante made people nervous.”
“Not nervous exactly.” Valentino slid his palm across the hair above his ears to smooth it, even though it was already as smooth and shiny as a slab of wax. Then he started looking around the restaurant. “Where’s that goddamn drink?”
“It’ll be here. Tell me about Musante.”
“You know us Italians, a lot of superstitions.”
“You’re not Italian,” Lennon countered.
Valentino continued speaking as if he hadn’t heard. “Well, superstition doesn’t go away when you join the outfits. There’s still a lot of old country hokum in our heads.”
“What’s that got to do with Musante?”
The drinks arrived. Scotch. Valentino downed half of his with a gulp. He kept hold of his glass and turned in the booth, again searching the restaurant. Lennon couldn’t tell if the man was anxious, afraid, or just hopped up on a nose full of cocaine. His irises were like crickets on griddles, bouncing around and looking for a place to land.
“Look, Lennon, there’s just not that much to tell. Musante came from an old family, and they had some sway in their day, but Lon fell from the tree and rolled way on down the hill, if you get my meaning. Marco and Lon grew up in the same Brooklyn neighborhood; that ties men together, you know? What’s the confusion? Musante’s dead. Let him rest.”
“You haven’t answered my question. What did Musante do for Impelliteri?” Why had his death ignited a street war?
Valentino rolled his eyes and shook his head. He lifted his glass and sipped this time, and then leaned back in the booth. “Eight months back, Lon was in a club, shooting his mouth off about a delivery: Scotch coming in over the Canadian line.” He hoisted his glass and swirled the whisky. “The delivery never made it. Some Fed overheard him and the whole shipment was stopped at the border. Six men collared. Two men toe tagged. These were members of Capone’s crew, part of Nitti’s pipeline, and everybody knew Musante had done the damage. So why was he still walking around? Still breathing? Anyone else would have been target practice in less than a day, but not Lonnie.”
Lennon chewed over the information, sipped his own drink. “He must have had some serious leverage against the syndicate.”
This made Valentino laugh. “We all have serious leverage, Lennon. But most of us are smart enough to never even consider using it. Lon had something else.”
“I don’t follow.”
“No, you really don’t. And I’m not the one to guide you, because I’ve always thought it was all a load of horseshit anyway.”
“All of what?”
“That mystic mumbo jumbo,” Valentino said, as if he’d already said it a hundred times.
Lennon could see the lucidity leaving Valentino’s eyes. No longer crickets on a griddle, his irises bobbed slowly, eyeing his glass and then the table and then his glass again. Apparently his system was coming down from the dope.
“One sentence, Valentino,” Lennon said, leaning on the table. “In one sentence, tell me what Musante did for Impelliteri.”
Valentino stared into the oil lamp on the tabletop, eyes now glazed. “He read his future.”
The statement hung between them. Lennon shook his head and lit a cigarette and leaned back in the booth. “Is that code for something?”
“It is what it is,” Valentino said. His chin dipped toward his chest. “Marco kept Lon around as a spiritual guide or some shit. Hell, I wish someone would pay me for looking into a drained tea cup or at their palm for a few seconds.”
“But Marco believed Lon was legit?”
“Medieval witch shit in the bright and shiny city,” Valentino muttered. Then he barked a sharp laugh and lit a cigarette of his own. “Lon couldn’t have been all that good or Marco would have made his mint at the track instead of running booze. Hell, if Lon had been any good he wouldn’t have been home the other night, you know?”
“And that’s it? Lonnie didn’t work the rackets?”
Valentino shrugged. A thick film had fallen over his eyes and his chin lazily bobbed as if he were trying to stay awake.
“I’m asking you a question.”
“Nah,” Valentino said. “He ran some numbers, but even that was more than Lon could handle. The guy was pretty much useless. They should have just done it and saved everyone the headache.”
“Done what?”
“After the Canadian import went south—or didn’t—Marco sent Lonnie an invitation.” He drew on his cigarette and released the smoke slowly so that it oozed over his upper lip. “It’s one of those invitations that you don’t refuse—to an event you usually don’t leave.”
“So Impelliteri did order a hit on Musante?”
“Yeah,” Valentino said. “Then he called it off the next day. Never heard of that happening before. Nobody talks their way out of an invitation to the dance, but Lon did. No dancing for Ol’ Lon. So maybe he had a different kind of leverage. Hard to say.”
“Then what?”
“Then the Bug sends the Wrestler to kill the Fortuneteller, and my good friend Lennon asks me to lunch.”
Valentino barked another laugh, drew on his smoke, ground it in the crystal ashtray and began looking around the restaurant again, presumably to have his drink refilled. After a quick wave to the gray-haired waiter, he turned his muddled eyes back to Lennon.
“You look like you’re about to fall over,” Lennon said.
“Perhaps a visit to the gents,” Valentino muttered.
“You do that,” Lennon said. He stood and withdrew his money clip and counted bills onto the table. “Tell me something before you go.”
“Hmm? Sure?”
“Where do pretty boys go when they aren’t pretty anymore?”
“Straight to hell, detective.”
Chapter 9
A War on Crime
Hours later and miles away, Marco Impelliteri, a man whose cunning business sense and quiet brutality had earned him a position near the apex of the Chicago syndicates, strolled across his office to his expansive mahogany desk and lifted the ringing telephone. He’d been in a lousy mood for days, ever since watching flames consume Lonnie Musante’s coffin and its contents: a man he’d known since childhood. The street war wasn’t helping his disposition. He’d called it, wanted it, but the fucking Irish were doing too good a job of dodging his boys’ bullets. He was sending messages, but nobody was listening.
He picked up the phone, cleared his throat, and said, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Powell’s goons took out two of my boys this afternoon. Frank isn’t happy. Your vendetta is drawing too much attention, and nobody but you is missing that fuck Musante. Frank says to shut it down.”
The line went dead and Marco Impelliteri looked at the conical earpiece as if it were the statue of a sainted martyr that had just whispered obscenities into his ear. He slammed the thing into the cradle and broke the metal arms loose. Marco lifted the telephone off his desk and threw it on the floor. It was the sixth phone to be scrapped in as many months.
Marco went to the window and put his brow against the cold glass. He didn’t like what he saw outside. The electric lights in his back yard illuminated a field of melting snow with great patches of brown grass appearing like lesions all across the ground. It looked horrible. It looked like rot.
Frank said. Frank said. Bullshit.
Nitti was nothing but a front, a face for the outfit that wasn’t as contentious as Paul Ricca’s. The only reason Al had anointed Frank in the first place was because the guy’s record made him look like a choirboy alongside the other lieutenants. Ricca gave the orders these days, probably had since the day Al went into the slam. Marco wasn’t impressed. That Old Country fuck, Ricca, could suck his cock. Yeah he had the skills, certainly had the brutality, to lead the outfits, but he was a thug. Immigrant filth. He ordered hits with his Sicilian “Make ’im go away,” bullshit, an accent so thick Marco could barely make out what the shit-heel was saying. But Ricca was in charge. He had the muscle, and nobody, not even Nitti, said boo when Ricca opened his mouth. Nitti was weak, as weak as a damp rag puppet, but he knew how the game was played.
Regardless of his feelings for the man, Marco had learned a thing or two from Nitti, learned to pass on the wet work, learned to keep his hands clean and his face out of the papers. That’s why he retained a small crew of hitters, kids who were young enough to move fast and were looking to make names for themselves. It was also why he’d retained a psychopath like Paul Rabin for the more complicated, delicate assignments. Rabin had been a hand-me-down from “Big Cheeks” Collasanto, a Capone lieutenant who’d taken a bullet to the throat in ’27. Impelliteri had gone to Collasanto, needing help with a matter outside the rackets, something that required secrecy and expediency, and Collasanto had been accommodating, if vague.