In the end, he agreed to wait in the car, but he tipped Carpaccio’s hand when he said, “Just don’t say anything in front of the driver on the ride back. We’re keeping this thing on the QT for the time being.”
His words chilled deeper than the wind whistling through the naked trees. For the first time, I knew for sure that Carpaccio hadn’t included anyone but Vinnie in his scheme. That made perfect sense; he was threading a very fine needle by trying to operate under Sam Giancana’s nose. The fewer people who knew anything, the safer—and the richer—he’d be. That’s why he’d shed his muscle at the station. I realized then that it could only end one way for me as well—at least as far as they saw it.
I stared into Vinnie’s dead gray eyes as I worked over his words, nodding numbly as the stakes ratcheted up to the limit in my mind.
Properly apprised of the situation, I made my way up the sloping walk to the front door. I stood still for several moments composing myself, trying without success to peer through the lacey thing behind the window. Then I took a deep breath, adjusted my hat, and pressed the buzzer on the cream-colored door. Twenty seconds passed before I heard footsteps on woodwork inside, followed by the sound of the doorknob turning an unlocked door. It reminded me of my own mother who never locked ours, either, even in Chicago.
The door cracked several inches. An elderly face looked out from the recess.
“Mrs. O’Hare?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Joe Buonomo. I was a friend of Edward’s. I was hoping I might speak to you about him.”
Her eyes flared, then she blinked several times through wire frames. She regarded me stonily, cautiously, her face suggesting she was debating if she ever wanted to open up that box again.
I said nothing, my insides knotting up as I stood still on the top step, Bo’palazzo’s menacing presence well in mind.
Mrs. O’Hare fidgeted with the door handle as she looked at me. Then the smallest of smiles broke around the edges of her lightly lipsticked mouth.
“Yes, Mr. Buonomo,” she said. “I think we can do that.”
65
Selma O’Hare offered me tea, of course. I felt it impolite to refuse. We made some small talk as she prepared it while I looked around her parlor at the photos on her walls and lace-topped tables.
Several featured young Edward with his sisters, both of whom had grown into lovely women. A famous photo of Butch’s wife, Rita, decorating him with the Medal of Honor in the Oval Office stood alone on the fireplace mantel, a note of thanks from President Roosevelt scribbled across the bottom. There was also a wedding photo of E. J. O’ Hare and his bride, circa 1915, on a nearby table. It seemed Mrs. Selma O’Hare wanted to remember what had been best in her life, not bitter.
We talked about Butch, and also Rita, over a fine English tea. Rita had remarried and remained on the West Coast with her new family, far enough away to escape the clutches of Carpaccio, I hoped. It was pleasant conversation, and Mrs. O’Hare seemed to enjoy it, smiling in warm reminiscence of her famous son. Inevitably she got to the question.
“So what’s brought you all the way to Alton, Joe?”
“I . . . uh . . . I’d like to ask a few questions about Butch . . . and his father . . . in Chicago.” I bit the inside of my lip after I said it.
She looked at me a long moment, put her cup down delicately on its saucer. “I’m afraid there isn’t much I can tell you, young man. Mr. O’Hare and I were divorced in 1927, you know. It isn’t something I’d be inclined to discuss with a stranger, even a friend of Edward’s.”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand. But I’m wondering if you’d indulge me just a little, please. This is a matter of some importance. Frankly, there may be a significant amount of money at stake here.”
“I do perfectly well with what I have,” she said, clearly annoyed. “So do my girls. Whatever E. J. did in Chicago came at a very high price, as you must know. I don’t see how having anything that came from those labors could bring anything but unhappiness to me and my family.”
Emotionally, I was with her. I felt dirty just asking her to talk about it, but there were many things in play that Selma O’Hare didn’t know—things I was taking great pains to keep her from ever having to know. Instinctively, I eyed the windows from time to time, imagining Bo’palazzo’s lurking figure in the mulberry bushes outside.
“Please, ma’am. I’m truly sorry to be asking you this. Is there anything at all you might recall Butch telling you from that time? In a letter maybe?”
She exhaled gently, eliciting the tiniest of sighs from her furrowed pink lips, sad eyes narrowing behind her round glasses. “Joe . . . you seem to be a nice man, and I do vaguely recall your name from letters Edward sent during the war. I really believe you were friends.”
I nodded like a schoolkid to the teacher, eyes wide, desperate for her approval.
She stood up slowly, straightened her dark dress, thinking something over. “All right then,” she announced. “Please come with me to the den. I keep all of Edward’s things there.”
Mrs. O’Hare led me a cozy room at the back of the house with a rolltop desk and a wheeled chair with a well-worn leather seat. The maple bookshelves were neatly stacked with encyclopedias, years and years of Harper’s magazine in sleeves, and hoary volumes of My Book House that brought a smile to my lips when I saw them. A globe in a standing mahogany frame dominated one corner of the room, a large wooden model of a US Navy ship the other. Outside, the last remnants of fading twilight skittered around the edges of the barren trees and peeked through the slatted blinds as cold night set in along the banks of the Mississippi.
The mother of my star-crossed friend retrieved a large box of letters for me, asked if I’d like to stay for supper, and left the room quietly.
Then I was alone with Butch, his words, his photos, his memories filling the decades and fathoms between us. The truth of it was I couldn’t possibly have known him as well as I thought I did, but the war had compressed everything. You had to make friends or fall in love quickly then because so many of us didn’t come home. Every emotion was magnified by the epic size and nature of the conflict. There was a gravity to those days I’d never felt since. Just seeing the censored letters with the wartime postmark gave me a warm buzz. For a little while, I even forgot there were two hardened criminals waiting outside for me.
Thirty minutes of sifting through letters and curios did not, however, bring me any closer to matters at hand. My mind was clear and receptive and brimming with warm recollections, but I’d seen scant correspondence between Butch and his father and nothing whatsoever related to my quest.
At the bottom of the box, underneath the letters, I dug up a pile of black-and-whites bound with old twine. As I withdrew them, the string broke, photos spilling out into the box and across the floor. I swore softly and stood up to retrieve them, cracking the tight links in my back as I did.
As I gazed down on them from my stretch, one of the photos caught my eye. I took a step, bent over to look at it more closely.
It was Butch and his father, E. J., on a daysailer sometime in the 1930s. The boat was tied up along a familiar-looking esplanade. A tingling began in my fingers as I reached to pick up the old Kodak. A second photo was stuck to the back of it, held there by a water spot and time. I pulled them apart to examine the back photo. My mind began to race, silently mouthed words spilling over my lips.
In the photo, a teenaged Butch smiled at the photographer from the cockpit of the same sailboat. The boat was surrounded by water, but there was a skyline in the background—one like no other. “Me and Dad” was written on the back in fading ink.
Images from the past week began zipping through my mind, began fitting in place.
Eyes darting, I scoured the room, searching for anything that might help shed more light. The books, the globe, the desk, the naval academy graduation photo—the
ship model.
“Mrs. O’Hare,” I called out, almost shouting. “Mrs. O’Hare, can you come in here, please?”
When she came in, I was bent over the carved replica of Butch’s aircraft carrier, peering over every detail of the large scale-model, scanning every gun mount, every arresting wire, every tiny plane affixed to its deck.
“Whatever is the matter, Mr. Buonomo?” she inquired with alarm. “You startled me so.”
I turned, stared at her, energy crackling through me. “What can you tell me about this model?”
She gaped at me as if I were deranged, which I surely was at that moment. “Why . . . why it’s a model that Edward sent me when he went off to the war. It’s his ship, of course . . . The one he saved. The Lexington.”
“Yes. I know. May I pick it up?”
She hesitated. “Please be careful.”
I lifted the carrier off its wooden base. It was heavier than I expected. I knew that meant something as I hoisted it up to the light, testing its heft in my shifting hands. “I have to ask you something I shouldn’t,” I said, “but I must.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I think the flight deck can be removed. It’s attached by pegs, not by glue. May I please open it?”
It was more of a demand than a request, but I waited for her to respond while I carried on like a madman, clutching the wooden model of the legendary ship to my chest. She said yes, but I would have done it anyway in another two seconds.
I placed the model on the desk and began gently wiggling the flight deck fore and aft, then side to side, just bursting with excitement. Mrs. O’Hare crowded in while I manipulated it, overcome by her own burgeoning curiosity.
One jostle, then another, carefully pulling upward on bow and stern all the while.
The carrier deck shuddered, then popped free lightly in my hands.
“Oh my,” uttered Mrs. O’Hare as we stole glances at each other. “Whatever is inside there?”
I set the flight deck down on the desk, peeked inside the open hull, gasped silently.
And then I knew.
The way, the when, the where.
Everything.
66
It’s a hell of a thing to get into a car with two men who may very well be planning to kill you. It’s harder still when you believe you’ve just figured out the location of a treasure worth millions of dollars.
But there wasn’t any way around it. If I somehow managed to duck out, they’d assume I’d learned something from Mrs. O’Hare, go right back to her house, and put the screws to her. And if I played stupid, they might just believe me and give me that swim in the Mississippi I’d contemplated earlier. That left me just one way to play it.
Vinnie was waiting for me in the darkness when I came down the walk, the Hudson gleaming behind him like a garnet in the crisp, black night.
“Long time in there, Buonomo.” He flung a cigarette onto the lawn. “That’s my fourth Chesterfield. I’m running out.”
I kept walking, denying him a chance to get anything out of me. “Let’s go. I want to see Carpaccio tonight.”
His lids widened, the dull eyes inside flickering to life on the darkened street. “Remember, don’t say nothin’ till we get on the train,” he muttered as I brushed past him and took hold of the sedan’s door.
Then we were riding down the leaf-strewn streets of Alton in the Hornet’s shadowy interior, dim dashboard lights betraying the furtive eyes and calculating minds within. A heavy silence descended upon us as we cruised down the setback rows of antebellum manses, rolled down the limestone cliffs, and slid out on the parkway, the old sled hugging the curves of the river flats like a slot car.
The driver made a left just past the huge grain elevators at water’s edge and drove into the heart of bright little Alton. But we cut right through the buzzing neon of the downtown eateries and emporiums, heedless of the warm spaces and good cheer inside, pushing on instead to the little brick station at the far edge of town, toward a rendezvous with a night train.
We made it about ten minutes prior to departure, which was a good nine minutes too soon. I cringed when Vinnie went to the phone booth, knowing he’d tell Carpaccio I was on to something. I knew better than to try and make any phone calls myself, especially with the Hornet man at my side, hands deep in his overcoat.
I’d already made all the calls I needed to anyway.
The Ann Rutledge pulled in just after eight. She was another streamliner, an elegant anachronism in this day of muscle-bound locomotives and boxy passenger cars. This one even had an open cab on the back-end observation car, another rarity in the modern age. I climbed aboard and took a seat in a middle car of the lightly populated train. Bo’palazzo sat in the row behind me, way too close for comfort.
I turned, leaned over the seat back. “Hey, can’t you give me a little room here?”
“Fat chance, Bonesy,” he sneered. “You’re not jumping this train on me. We’re riding this one together—all stops. You get out before Union Station, it’ll be in a hearse.” He patted his chest where his gun lay underneath just in case I was slow on the uptake.
A couple several rows down whispered to themselves, then got up and left the car. I stared into Bo’palazzo’s empty eyes, boring my contempt for him into his slate-colored pupils.
The clang clang of a bell sounded. Then the engine began its slow wind, impelling a hundred tons of aluminum along steel rails, first by inches, then by yards. Vinnie looked through his window, gave the wave off to the Hornet man, watched him recede.
He turned back to me and said, “Carpaccio said for you to tell me what you know. We got a long trip to kill, so why don’t you fill me in on what the old lady said? There’s something going on behind those eyes of yours, Buonomo. I can see it.”
I nodded slightly. “Make you a deal, Vinnie. You don’t try and strong-arm me again and I won’t tell the conductor about that hogleg you’re wearing and get you tossed out in the next hick town we pass, okay? I’ll talk to Carpaccio—and him only.”
I gestured toward the back of the car. “Now you’re going to give me some space like I asked.”
Bo’palazzo gave me his Sunday best stare, his black-eyed face telegraphing the many injuries he burned to visit upon me. The mobster got up slowly, walked to the back of the car, and sat down, his eyes on my back.
He was right, of course. There was a great deal going on inside my head, and precious little time before things would begin happening. That left me just a few hours to figure out a viable plan.
The engineer hit the horn several times, tooting out jagged warnings as the train chugged out of the Alton yard. I cracked my neck, rolled my head sideways, peeking out the corner of my eye. Outside it was quite dark under the cloudy skies, yet Vinnie’s washed-out face shone clearly enough in the window.
The downstate runner headed out, Burma Shave signs ticking by in crimson streaks as she put on the speed. Fuzzy cars and telephone pole blips zipped by my window, vanishing quietly into the prairie night, but Bo’palazzo’s reflection remained with me, mile after glowering mile, an ever-present and wholly disquieting reminder of the things that lay ahead in the big city by the lake.
67
The time passed quietly. Despite the scowling visage in the window, I was able to revisit the deduction I’d reached at Mrs. O’Hare’s house and fine-tune the plan I’d set in motion before leaving. It was all predicated on me getting off the train unseen in Union Station. How I’d pull that one off I hadn’t yet figured out. Everything changed in Springfield anyway.
While the train was idling at the station, Vinnie sat down across from me.
“You know, I was watching you,” he said.
“I was trying hard to look like a man on a train. How’d I do?”
His face grew tired. “Not here. Back in Alton—at the old lady’s house.”
“That’s right. I saw you right through that window . . . looking at those pictures, fiddling around with that model. I caught some of what she said to you. If you’re thinking about checking that ship out, you better plan on bringing me and Carpaccio along for the trip.”
I chuckled in his face. “Bring your scuba gear, Vin, she’s been on the bottom of the Coral Sea since 1942. Got any other guesses?”
“Yeah—for you. Guess where I’m gonna be tomorrow if you don’t come across tonight?”
“I’ll start by ruling out the physics lab at the University of Chicago.”
“The old lady’s house. And it won’t be to try out her chicken and dumplings, I promise you that.”
His eyes began to twinkle as he pondered it. I knew he was trying to get a rise out of me.
“Leave her out of it, Bo’palazzo. She doesn’t know anything.”
The train had begun to move again, blocks of Springfield edging quietly past on either side of the car, the dome of the capitol a distant silver smudge against the deep blue night sky.
“You know Carpaccio was a butcher, right?” he said, grinning deeply. “His family still owns a shop—right there in the old neighborhood.”
“You’ll excuse me if I don’t go right out and order some cuts.”
“I can’t blame you there—just imagine some of the things that have happened in there after close of business.”
He smirked at me, made sure I knew where he was going. “I’m only an apprentice myself, but it’s gotten so I can dress anything out pretty good.”
He laughed silently inside, marking my eyes the whole time, tickled pink with himself.
I could feel the testosterone surging within me, the tension building in my fingers as I clutched the edge of the cushioned seat back. “You like that, huh, Vinnie? You get off on hurting old ladies, do you?”
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