Cold Fury

by T. M. Goeglein

  “What’s BabyLand?”

  “My store. It offers everything for new parents, from clothes to furniture to them weird bags they stuff the kid into and strap to their chest.” Knuckles shook his head and said, “What kind of a man would wear that thing?”

  “Kid stuff doesn’t really match your personality,” I said.

  “That’s the beauty of it. The Feds look at traditional businesses . . . limos, concrete, strip joints . . . but who ever thinks to look behind a baby?” He sucked on the cigar like a pacifier, hacked up smoke, and said, “The problem is StroBisCo. You think it was too damn huge to be suspect, but the G-men are even peeking behind Wonder-Fluff Carmel Bars. ’Course, they ain’t gonna find nothing. The books have been cooked on StroBisCo since day one, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Uh, yeah . . . for sure,” I said as casually as possible, as if I knew what he was talking about. Fortunately for me, he kept talking, and what I heard was amazing. Everyone on the planet had heard of StroBisCo, since it churned out a majority of the population’s junk food. What no one on the planet knew, except for a select few criminal Chicagoans, was that the gigantic corporation was also the Outfit’s most important front business. Its complex of factories on the West Side went on for miles, the smokestacks belching out the afterburn of thousands of conveyor-belt crackers, cookies, doughnuts, and anything else that can be packed with sodium or injected with sugar. Its most famous snack is the Wonder-Fluff Carmel Bar, which my dad says contains so many additives that it causes teeth to fall out. According to Knuckles, besides promoting world obesity, StroBisCo was also a massive money-laundering operation for the Outfit—dirty dollars went in one door, were shaked and baked, and came out another door perfectly clean and untraceable. The VP of Money was also the CEO of StroBisCo. In order to avoid suspicion, he was withholding all payments to Outfit members until the Feds quit poring over false payroll ledgers and doctored expenditure sheets.

  “VP of Money,” I said, remembering what I’d learned from the notebook. “Last name Strozzini?”

  Knuckles nodded. “My grandfather hated his great-grandfather, and my father hated his grandfather, and I hate him. I haven’t been able to pay my guys in a month, and they’re the ones out there doing the heavy lifting and leg breaking.”

  “But doesn’t it make sense? I mean, if the FBI is paying that much attention . . .”

  “Ah, it’s all BS. Strozzini is holding on to that money just to screw with me. The mutual animosity between the Battuta and Strozzini clans is legendary,” Knuckles said, with something like pride. He went on to say how my dad was scheduled to sit down with both men to resolve the situation, and asked me to urge my dad to fulfill his duty as counselor-at-large and do the deal.

  “I can’t. He’s . . . not well.”

  “He’s on a cruise, ain’t he, kid?”

  “He’s not well,” I said quietly, locking onto his rheumy eyes while narrowing mine threateningly, as if I could call up the blue flame at will. “In fact, he’s so ill we had to close the bakery temporarily.”

  Knuckles blinked heavily, whispering, “Sorry to hear it. Give him my best.” A moment later and a shade paler, he said, “How about you?”

  “Me what?”

  “Do what your dad does, what Enzo the Baker used to do,” he said. “Sit down with me and Strozzini, use your gift or whatever it is, and get my guys paid.”

  “No, I couldn’t. What if he doesn’t listen to me?”

  “He might not. Doing business with broads isn’t exactly an Outfit tradition. On the other hand, you got the Rispoli thing in spades with the eyes.” He shivered.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Okeydoke,” he said, revving the Scamp. “Well, good luck to that nonviolent pal of yours. He’ll be fine. Maybe.” He touched his hat and rolled toward the door.

  “Wait,” I sighed. “Okay, I’ll do it. But I can’t guarantee anything.”

  Knuckles buzzed in reverse and greeted me with a nauseating display of cigar-stained teeth that was, in theory, a smile. “Club Molasses, right? When?”

  “Uh . . . no, not there. My uncle Buddy is doing some odds and ends at the bakery while it’s closed. You know, painting and, uh . . . mopping.”

  “Buddy Rispoli,” Knuckles said with a chuckle. “What a schlub.”

  After all that had happened, the dismissive way he said it affected me strangely—it actually made me a little sad for my uncle. “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Listen, kid, no offense, okay? Buddy’s not a bad guy, he’s just not your dad. Frankly, I never seen such a wannabe in all my life. The guy should stick to mixing batter or rolling dough or whatever it is he does. His own pop, Enzo the Baker, didn’t even trust him enough to tell him that Club Molasses existed under his own fat feet!” Knuckles guffawed, and then wiped his eyes. “Naw, the Outfit ain’t for him.”

  “Who’s it for?”

  “A Rispoli like you. Hell, you’d be perfect if you weren’t a girl,” he said with a wink. “Now then, how about the Bird Cage Club?”

  I remembered it from the notebook; it was the other place guarded by Nunzio’s rats. “Fine. Where is it?”

  “Come on, kid, I ain’t got time for this. You know where it is.”

  “Right. Of course,” I said, making a mental note to read up on it.

  We talked details a while longer—what I wanted him to do tomorrow, and whom to do it to, when the meeting with Strozzini would occur—and then Knuckles held out a catcher’s mitt and showed me those teeth again. “So we got a deal?” he said.

  “Deal,” I said.

  I shook a hand that had busted many bones over the decades.

  Those bones were smaller pieces of shattered lives.

  I had just agreed to be a part of that sick process, and it broke my heart.

  19

  EVERYONE HAS A TALENT, even the most seemingly untalented person, even if it’s something that other people wouldn’t consider particularly entertaining or useful, like performing an entire opera on a kazoo or flipping an omelet blindfolded.

  My sometimes-friend Gina’s talent is gossip.

  The time had come to deploy the full power of her awesome gift.

  I’d asked Doug to wait twenty-four hours until he did anything crazy like hurting himself, and the time was almost up. When the bell rang at the end of first period, I was out the classroom door and down the hallway before it filled with slow-moving loud-talkers, waiting at Gina’s locker. I’d made sure to conceal my bruises beneath makeup so her full attention was on what I was about to tell her. Gina’s place in the Fep Prep firmament—Gossip Queen—makes her the be-all, end-all of the buzz, dish, and dirt, and I had a juicy morsel now that was (literally) custom made for her.

  When she saw me, her incredible gossip ESP kicked in and she said, “Let me guess. Max is going to fight Billy Shniper.”

  I looked around carefully and then stared at her. “No,” I said. “Doug is.”

  There are few things as sweet as seeing surprise register on Gina’s face. Watching her process unexpected information is like watching a great chef experience a new flavor. “When? Where?” she said hungrily. “More importantly . . . how?”

  “Don’t fool yourself,” I said. “Doug has moves.”

  “Yeah, one toward a bag of Munchitos, the other toward a remote control. Seriously, Sara Jane, is this really going to happen?”

  I looked around again, and said, “I swear. Today, right after school. Under the El tracks, behind Bump ‘N’ Grind. And Gina?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Doug’s a friend of mine, so don’t tell anyone, okay? He said that after he breaks Billy’s nose . . .”

  “He said that?”

  “And after he makes Billy get down on his knees and apologize like the little bitch that he is . . .”

  “Doug said that?”

  “Then he just wants to put this whole silly thing behind him and get back to concentrating on his girlfriend. The mode
l. Who lives in Canada.” There, I thought, looking at Gina’s O-mouth, that should do it.

  It did it all right.

  By last period, the tidbit had spread from kid to kid like flu in a preschool.

  Everyone seemed to know about it except Doug, who never talked to anyone.

  When the last bell rang, the entire student body flooded out the doors and headed for the grassy patch beneath the El. I’d made a plan with Doug to get an espresso at Bump ‘N’ Grind after school, and he was waiting for me on the sidewalk, confused at the back pats and “good lucks” being showered on him by kids he didn’t know and had never spoken to. “What’s that all about?” he said.

  “Maybe they just like you,” I said as we started walking.

  “No one likes me.”

  “Doug . . .”

  “I know, I know,” he said, shifting his laptop from one arm to the other. “You do. But I’ve been thinking about it—I can’t stop thinking about it—and it’s not enough to . . .”

  “Hey! Doug!”

  I looked up at Max waiting across the street, hands on hips, angry and concerned, and I realized I’d forgotten to factor him into the plan. “Crap,” I mumbled.

  “Crap what?” Doug said as we crossed the street. The mosh pit of kids crowding behind Bump ‘N’ Grind was impossible to miss. “What’s going on here?” he said.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Max said, stepping in front of Doug.

  “Just getting an espresso,” he said, taken aback. “Maybe a scone.”

  “You’re going to fight Billy Shniper?” Max said.

  “What?” Doug said, turning bright pink.

  “You are?” I said innocently.

  “No. No . . . I would never . . .”

  “Hey, chunky!” Billy shouted. Apparently he’d been waiting behind Bump ‘N’ Grind doing calisthenics or something, warming up for the takedown, and now he came around the corner with his idiot crew in tow. A throng of kids followed, and then it was Billy and his friends on one side and Doug, me, and Max on the other. Billy strutted like a muscle-bound peacock, saying, “Bad-ass versus fat-ass! This is gonna be awesome!”

  Doug said, “I don’t understand what’s happening, but I won’t fight you.”

  Billy shrugged. “You don’t have to. Just stand there and I’ll beat your ass.”

  Doug looked around at the crowd, processing it, and then back at Billy. “Aim for the head. It’ll save me from buying rat poison.”

  “Huh?” Billy said.

  “You’re gonna kill me, kill me. Get it over with,” Doug said calmly. “What are you, scared? I’m not.”

  Billy’s smile drooped, he looked around at his guys, who were as confused as he was, and turned back to Doug. “What is this, like, some kind of mind game?”

  “Hit me!” Doug roared, making Billy and his guys step back. “You effing loser! You effing freak!”

  “Doug,” I hissed, grabbing his arm, “stop talking. Just . . . wait.”

  “Wait for what?” he bellowed, and turned on Billy. “Hit me! Kill me! Do it now, you . . . you effing retard!”

  Billy’s face fell when he heard that word. He made a hard red fist and said, “My pleasure,” through clenched teeth, but was interrupted by the gentle toot of a car horn. The crowd turned to the curb, where a Fiat older and smaller than my mom’s creaked to a halt. It was a tiny Italian car with a tiny Italianate man emerging from it. He was in black from head to toe—black suit, black shoes and shirt—except for his tie, which was white. His black-rimmed glasses magnified his eyes like two dark marbles and were worn beneath an impressive head of white hair. The tune he whistled was carefree and so was he, strolling toward the mosh pit with his tiny hands in his tiny pockets. Watching him approach, I thought, If this is Knuckles’s scariest guy, Doug is dead. He stopped a few feet away, took his time surveying the crowd, then raised his black eyebrows and grinned with a mouthful of white Chiclet teeth.

  “Yo, Dougy,” he said with a dip of his head.

  The crowd was silent, a train rumbled overhead, and Doug said, “Me?”

  “How’s it hanging, buddy boy?”

  “Uh . . . fine, I suppose,” Doug said, confused. “Listen, I’m not . . .”

  The tiny man moved closer and looked up at Billy, inspecting him like he were in a petri dish. “Who’s this jag?” he said. “President of the Hitler Youth Club?”

  “Something like that. Pardon me, but who are . . . ?”

  He shook a box, popped a Tic-Tac, and said, “Listen up, everybody, and get the wax outta your ears. Dougy here is my man, my very best chum, amico mio numero uno, you get me? Anyone”—he paused, smiling at Billy—“and by anyone I mean you, Adolf Junior, bullies, teases, touches, taunts, screws with, or looks askance at him, you’re gonna have to deal with me.”

  An empty plastic bag scratched past like a tumbleweed.

  Someone coughed quietly.

  Far away a siren moaned.

  The tiny man raised his arms like a preacher. “Are we square?”

  Billy snuffled stupidly and said, “I don’t know what that means, but I know it’s gonna take a lot more than some old midget to back me off of fatty-pants here. Hell, I’m just getting started!”

  “Old midget,” the tiny man said, smiling. “Why are guys like you always so dumb? Can’t you see I’m a harbinger?”

  “A what?” Billy said.

  “Harbinger . . . of doom,” Doug mumbled as a shreep of brakes sounded at the curb. It was an anonymous car, dark and unidentifiable, just like the three guys who slinked out of it. Billy and his well-muscled crew were twice the size of the small, wiry trio, who wore jeans and heavy boots and plain T-shirts, and had biceps like small round rocks under their yellowish skin. They said not a word, just fanned out behind the tiny man. One of them had a tattoo but I can’t remember what it was, and I think another wore a ball cap but I can’t be sure if it was Cubs or Sox. I would be hard-pressed to pick any of them out of a lineup except to say that they were not big and looked sort of bored, but they smelled dangerous. Violence crackled in the air, and the tiny man pointed at Billy and said, “Jigsaw puzzle. Small pieces.”

  “Them”—Billy snorted and then gestured at his ’roid-rage crew—“versus us? Are you serious, midget man?”

  I hated to agree with Billy but he seemed to have a point. The three guys looked like second-string ballet dancers, not even mean-looking, just standing there.

  “So dumb,” the tiny man said, shaking his head. “Boys? You’re on the clock.”

  The first guy moved slowly, like a thin, bored cat, but somehow Billy was on the ground holding his face and screaming while the other two were kicking him all over. There was movement, someone huffed, and one of Billy’s friends was in a pile weeping while another held a bloody nose and screamed for help until he got punched in the mouth. It was like a three-man tornado of ass kicking that whipped around Billy and his buddies with no sign of stopping, hypnotizing the crowd with its pure, poetic violence. I sidled up to the tiny man and whispered, “You were only supposed to scare him!”

  He nodded politely. “You’re the Rispoli, huh?”

  “Knuckles promised!”

  “One thing you should know about Knuckles: he’s a liar,” he said, showing me white Chiclet teeth. “We all are. That’s why we’re in this business, right?”

  I looked back at the whirlwind of violence I was responsible for—fists, blood, and teeth—and it made me want to puke. The spectators emitted a collective huh-huh-huh! howl, like a capacity crowd at a cow-butchering contest. I walked away quickly, hustling toward the Lincoln, and heard my name called as I rounded a corner.

  “What did you do?” Doug said in a tone that was pure accusation.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, and kept walking.

  “Who are those guys? You were talking to the little one, I saw you!”

  “Go away, Doug,” I said, anxious to be alone, away from the scene. “Go home an
d don’t kill yourself, okay?”

  “Back there, before he showed up, you told me to wait!” Doug said, grabbing my arm and spinning me around. “You knew he was coming!”

  I shot a finger in his face as fast as I throw a left and said, “At least you could say thank you!” The car keys were in my hand, and then I was in the car gunning the engine, and Doug threw himself in the passenger seat as I squealed away from the curb.

  “It wasn’t your place!” he shouted. “I’m against violence!”

  “Oh, shut the hell up, Doug, you big girl!” I screamed, roaring onto Ashland Avenue. “I am too, but it happened! It’s not like they’re going to kill him . . .”

  “Kill him?!”

  “And now Billy will never bother you again! No one will! You’ll have all the space you need to figure out the mysterious destiny of Doug Stuffins!”

  “It wasn’t your place! You have no right!” he said, but his voice faded and my view through the windshield narrowed as my windpipe quit working. I was choking, something biting into the skin at my neck, and I smelled putrid meat before looking into the rearview mirror at the same plastic devil mask from Cinco de Mayo leaning over the backseat. The wire Ski Mask Guy was killing me with was digging into my throat. I couldn’t make a sound while Doug gazed out the window, sighed, and said, “Life is so unfair,” as I cranked the wheel. I smashed into a parked van on the left, sending pedestrians scattering like cockroaches hiding under a refrigerator. Doug screamed, and I did it again, this time crushing the side of a sluggish bus on the right, its passengers pressing their shocked faces against windows. Ski Mask Guy slid from side to side but his grip only tightened. Doug saw him and went mute, squeezing himself into the corner.

  “You’re next, chub-bub!” Ski Mask Guy squealed in his schoolmarm voice.

  I pressed the gas pedal to the floor, speed and motion my only defense. It was the second time the maniac had tried to choke me to death and this time it was working—this time I had no Harry, only Doug, and he was a gaping frozen meatball. I whipped the car back and forth, sideswiping a Toyota and crushing the mirror of a minivan. Ski Mask Guy’s grip slipped and I gasped, “Doug! Do something!”