Dead Ringer

by Michael A. Black

  The Mink wasn’t anxious to find the answer, and he hoped the decision he’d made this morning wouldn’t cause him to end up beneath that gray-green water looking up.

  He licked his lips and drew on the cigar, catching a glimpse of the big, round-faced clock on the Wrigley Building across the way.

  Eight-fifty.

  More people pushed past him, and Johnny glared at them. After checking his watch again, for the fourth time in the last five minutes, he looked up to see the tall man’s head bobbling along above the rest of the pedestrians. The corners of Osmand’s mouth twisted downward into an ugly scowl.

  “Fox,” he yelled.

  The tall man turned, his brows furrowing slightly.

  “Over here,” Osmand repeated with an undercurrent of impatience. Above the two men, carved into the limestone corner of the bridge, a colonial soldier grappled with a Blackhawk warrior in bas-relief. Neither combatant looked as angry as the Mink.

  Reginald Fox strolled over, his topcoat slung over his left arm, a finely crafted leather briefcase dangling from his right. He was three decades younger than the Mink, and half a foot taller.

  “You’re late, counselor,” Osmand grunted.

  “Sorry,” Fox said. “But I didn’t get your message till this morning. Why all the secrecy?”

  Instead of answering, Osmand cocked his head toward the cement steps that led down to the docks, where tourists could get boat rides up the river to the lake. They moved down the stairs, but at the midpoint, Osmand turned into the enclosed section that housed the gritty ambiance of Lower Wacker.

  The lawyer sighed, but followed. The cement walls and ceilings of the enclosure amplified the sounds of the passing cars and trucks. A foul odor hung in the chilly air. When Osmand stopped, Fox set his briefcase down and began to put on his topcoat.

  “Johnny, what the hell’s going on?” Fox asked, as the shorter man hailed a taxi stopped at the light.

  “Making sure we ain’t tailed,” Osmand said.

  “Tailed? Johnny, come on. We’re due in court at ten.”

  But Osmand was already getting into the cab. Fox rolled his eyes. With some difficulty he folded his lanky frame into the rear seat.

  “Where to, gentlemen?” the cabbie asked, a trace of New Delhi in his accent.

  “Jewelers’ Row,” Osmand said, reaching over the seat and handing him a five. “And we’re in a hurry.”

  The driver nodded and pulled out into traffic, cutting to make the Wabash street ramp. Fox gave Osmand an imploring look.

  “Johnny, please. Tell me what’s going on?”

  “Aww, shut up,” Osmand said. “Why do you think I pay you the big bucks?”

  They took the cab over to Wabash, and Johnny told the driver to pull over by the El tracks.

  “Come on,” Osmand said, starting toward the upper platforms.

  “If you think I’m going on the El...” Fox protested weakly, but he went along.

  “For a young guy, you sure ain’t in no kind of shape,” Osmand said, going up the stairs. “Shit, when I was your age, I was a rock.”

  “I prefer to use my mind rather than my body,” Fox said. “Now where are we going? I told you, we’ve got to be in court at ten.”

  “Then we better move our asses, right?” Osmand said. He stopped abruptly and surveyed the people coming up to the platform behind them. Fox stopped next to him, puffing slightly, and Osmand figured that the crack about not being in shape had stung the lawyer. “I thought you played basketball for that fancy college you went to? What was it? Harvard?”

  “Princeton,” Fox said, his breathing slipping back to a semblance of regularity. “Look, Johnny—”

  But Osmand appeared in no mood to listen. He continued to stare at the people ascending the stairs. After a few more minutes, he motioned for Fox to follow and they went to the stalls. Osmand shoved a bill under the window toward the attendant and got two tokens. He pressed one into Fox’s hand as they went through the gates. On the other side he paused again and looked back. Fox seemed to know better than to say anything. He followed as they went up the stairs to the third level. Out on the platform, they waited for the next southbound train. The outbound side was practically deserted. A few people joined them as the train began clattering into the station. The El darted in, slowing to a stop. Its doors popped open and disgorged groups of people. Osmand and Fox waited for a path to clear, then got on. So did the few others who’d been standing next to them. Osmand scrutinized the other passengers carefully, then, at the last second before the doors closed, he pulled Fox’s sleeve and they jumped off the train.

  Fox sighed heavily as Osmand watched the El rumble off. The platform was now completely deserted, the last of the commuters having already hurried through the gates. Osmand nodded toward the exits.

  When they reached street level, Osmand looked around one more time, then chuckled softly.

  “Come on,” he said. “We got a stop to make, then we can go to court.” He inhaled deeply, then let out an expansive breath. “Ain’t nothing like the sweet smell of fresh, free air.”

  “Laden with exhaust fumes,” Fox said.

  They walked up the block past the jewelry shops that lined both sides of the street

  “You talk to them about the deal?” Osmand asked.

  “I told them that we’d consider it,” Fox said.

  Osmand frowned. The lawyer had an irritating way of sounding condescending whenever he spoke. Like everybody else was just a cut below him. Johnny turned into the Wabash entrance to the Pittsfield Building and Fox followed him through the ornate revolving doors. Inside the lobby Osmand walked over to the tobacco shop and bought three cigars. The two men exited on the Washington Street side and went the half-a-block east to Michigan Avenue. Johnny stopped again, making a show of leaning into one of the crevices of entrance to light his cigar.

  “We’re gonna go into the bank two doors down,” Osmand said in a hoarse whisper. “Capisce?”

  “Is that where we’re going?” Fox said, his tone lapsing into petulance.

  It was an expansive building, full of Plexiglas stands and shiny silver pillars. Inside, a young black man in a security-guard uniform eyed them and pointed to the No Smoking sign. Johnny reluctantly stuck the smoldering cigar into the white sand of a standing gold ashtray. For an older bank, it was exquisitely furnished. The tellers were lined up like a picket fence behind a chest-high counter fashioned from black marble. Beyond that, a dozen or so secretaries were seated at expensive desks on the perimeter of a series of glass-walled offices. Osmand steered Fox to the down escalator. The lower section was equally sumptuous, with miniature Art-Deco statues standing sentry on ornate pedestals. Osmand went toward the west wall where a pretty girl of about twenty-five sat behind a partition, the flat, polished onyx top matching her ebony complexion. She stood and smiled as they approached and held out her hand. Behind her were rows of small steel drawers. Osmand showed her a flat, silver key. The woman looked at it and went to one of the drawers, flipping up a stack of cards that were filed in staggered succession. Leaving the cards flipped up to that spot, she returned to the counter and put a white slip of paper on the flat surface.

  “Good morning, Mr. Orlando,” she said. The gold nametag above her left breast said DIANE. “How are you today, sir?”

  “Fine, honey,” said Osmand, scrawling Joe Orlando on the line. She took the paper and went back to the card file to compare the signatures, made a quick notation on the card, and flipped it down again.

  “Oh, Miss,” Osmand said. “I’d like to put my attorney on my card, if it’s all right.”

  Diane smiled, running her polished red fingernail along the stack of cards again, and once more flipped them up. This time she removed a beige card.

  “Certainly, Mr. Orlando,” she said. Then to Fox, “If I may see some identification, sir.”

  Fox set his briefcase down and took out his wallet. He selected his driver’s license along with a business card and
snapped them onto the counter top with a precise click.

  “Co-renter or a deputy?” she asked Osmand.

  “As a deputy I’ll have full privileges only if something happens to Mr. Orlando, correct?” Fox said quickly. Diane nodded and looked back at Osmand.

  “I guess it don’t matter none, as long as he can get in it if I’m... indisposed.” He looked at Fox. “Co-renter’s fine.” Diane made the notations on the card then showed Fox where to sign. When he was done, she smiled at him and replaced the card. After grabbing a ring of keys, she indicated that they should move around behind the counter and over to a large vault door. Both men watched her as she walked in front of them. She was dressed in a tight blue dress, and her nylon pantyhose swished slightly as she moved.

  “Nice ass,” Osmand muttered to Fox.

  The vault door was standing open, its huge, concentrically formed steel rings attesting to its thickness and solidarity. The back of the door was Plexiglas, so that the large steel rods of the locking mechanism were visible. On the lower portion of the right side a horizontal row of numbers were displayed down to the second, showing that the electronic time-lock had now been open for one hour and fifteen minutes. They passed through the row of vertical steel bars on the other side of the door. Inside the vault were rows and rows of safety deposit boxes of all sizes. All the doors were gold colored and numbered in vertical succession. Osmand and Fox followed Diane to the section of the largest boxes. She placed the key from the ring into the first lock. Osmand handed her his key and she inserted that one into the second lock. She gave both a half turn and the steel door opened. As she drew the black metal box from its resting place, the weight caused her arms to sag slightly. Osmand reached forward and grabbed it, smiling broadly.

  “You know where the rooms are, don’t you, sir?” Diane asked. Osmand nodded. “Just call me when you’re ready, gentlemen.” She watched them carefully as they moved out of the vault toward the examination rooms.

  Osmand set the box on the table.

  “Shut the fucking door,” he said. Once it was closed, he reached in his coat pockets and removed two bricks of bills, which were rubber-banded together. He opened the lid of the box. Several more stacks of bills were visible. The top bill of each carried the picture of Benjamin Franklin.

  “How much you got in there?” the lawyer asked, eying them.

  “Never mind how fucking much I got in there,” Osmand said in a guttural whisper. “This is all I want you to be concerned about.” He reached in the box and took out a VHS cassette tape in a plain, white cardboard package.

  Fox stared at it, then looked at Osmand.

  “You want to tell me what it is?” he said.

  Osmand smiled again. So expansively that the gold crowns of his molars were visible.

  “Insurance,” the Mink said. “The best fucking insurance in the world.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Monday, April 13, 1992

  6:38 A.M.

  Anthony Cardoff looked at the reflection in the mirror for a few seconds before slapping on the lather. It was the only time he really felt old: when he saw his reflection. His beard had turned gray a long time ago. So had the hair. But at least he still had all of it. He ran the edge of the safety-razor under the hot water and began scraping, listening to the disc jockey read the traffic and weather report for this fine spring morning. No rain predicted. That was good, even though this was April, and it was supposed to rain in April. He turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature as he thought about how soon September twelfth would be coming. This would be his last summer. As he was drying off he caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. His tall body still had its leanness, despite being only five months away from the department’s mandatory retirement age. But at sixty-one he still managed to take down an occasional door with the raid team.

  The kitchen of his old house had a linoleum floor, and it was cold against his bare feet. He checked the coffee maker and went into the bedroom to finish dressing. This was when he really missed her: the mornings, when he saw her photo on the dresser. It had always been such a special time for them, her making breakfast as he got ready for work. He’d always meant to take an early retirement, so they could spend some quality time together. Travel. Do the things they always planned on doing. But the expenses delayed it at first, getting the kids through college. And after his transfer to the Organized Crime Division, something he’d dreamed of his entire career, he couldn’t just up and leave the department. Mary had understood, and had supported him completely. They’d have time, she said, and he always felt they would, too.

  Then suddenly time ran out.

  She’d left him quickly, mercifully lingering only a few months after the tumor was discovered. After that it seemed pointless to quit. Why retire when there was nothing left for him? He’d buried himself in his work, becoming what the newspapers called the pre-eminent authority in the Police Department on the Chicago Outfit, or the mob. After several successful prosecutions, he was selected to head the special, multi-agency task force that would hopefully end the career of the current capo di tuti capi, Salvatore “Vino” Costelli.

  The coffeemaker hissed, and Tony heard it from the bedroom. He slipped on his shirt and went back into the kitchen, taking a cup from the cupboard and filling it with the steaming brew. He liked it black, a throw-back to his time in the Navy, when an old CPO had told him if he learned to like it black, he’d never miss it if there was no cream or sugar. He tried to limit himself to three cups a day now, a far cry from his early days on the force when he’d need nine to ten cups just to get through a midnight shift. Sipping the strong coffee as he walked back into the bedroom, he was reminded of the first time he’d ever seen Salvatore Costelli.

  It had been a cool spring night, and Tony, who was still considered a rookie, had just gotten his permanent assignment to District Twelve, the wonderfully quaint area around Taylor and Halsted known as Little Italy. The V.A. Building was down the street, along with the massive construction project that would one day be the University of Illinois Hospital and Circle Campus. Lining the streets of the area were all kinds of family-owned businesses: pizza shops, shoemakers, grocery stores. He’d parked his squad-car in the mouth of a nearby alley. D’Angelo’s on Carpenter had the best Italian beef in the city, and he rarely missed a chance to eat there. After devouring the spicy sandwich, he was walking out with his cup of coffee when he heard the disturbance.

  At first it just sounded like loud voices. Nothing unusual for this area. Then a woman screamed. Tony dropped his coffee and ran toward the sound. Down the block, in front of Casio’s Shoe Repair, he saw three figures. Two men and a woman: Mr. and Mrs. Casio and a stranger. The stranger was a short, heavy-set man in a navy-blue, pin-stripe suit. His black hair was slicked back, and he wore sunglasses even though it was dark. Mr. Casio was hunched over, holding his face. Blood dripped from between his fingers and puddled on the sidewalk. The stranger stood in front of them, his right hand concealed by his leg.

  Tony unsnapped his .38 as he ran up and screwed it into the stranger’s left ear.

  “Let me see your hands,” Tony said.

  The stranger turned his face toward him and smiled. It was a fat face, made more massive by the oily pompadour. The man looked to be in his mid-thirties in the glow of the street lamp. On his right cheek was a V-shaped birthmark that descended onto his neck. Tony saw a glint of light, and something scudded onto the sidewalk by the man’s right shoe. A straight-razor. Pushing the stranger roughly over to the wall, Tony told him to put his hands on the building.

  Mrs. Casio was speaking in frantic Italian and trying to tend to her husband, who kept pushing her away with his blood-covered hands. Tony could see that Casio had a cut across the bridge of his nose that was bleeding badly.

  “I’d better call for an ambulance,” Tony said. “You’re going to need stitches.”

  Mrs. Casio said something Tony didn’t understand. />
  “No,” Mr. Casio said, continuing in his broken English. “I be all right. No ambulance.” Tony stooped and picked up the straight razor from the sidewalk.

  “Is this what he cut you with?” he asked.

  But instead of answering, Mr. Casio just shook his head and said something to his wife in their native language. The blood was beginning to congeal on his face, but still ran from the wound. Tony took out his handcuffs and reached for the stranger’s right arm.

  “Tony, no,” Casio said, placing his bloody hand on Tony’s forearm.

  “Huh?” Tony said. “This guy cut you, didn’t he?”

  “No,” Casio said. “I fall down. That’s all.”

  “Bullshit,” said Tony.

  “Tony, please,” Mrs. Casio implored. “Let him go.”

  The man had been leaning against the wall with his arms outstretched. Now he relaxed a little and straightened up. Turning, he faced Tony and smirked.

  “Tony, huh? You a paisano?” he asked.

  “Shut up,” Tony said, then turned back to Mr. Casio. “Did he threaten you or something?”

  Still fending off his wife’s probing hands, Mr. Casio looked at Tony for an instant. There was sadness in his eyes, and something else. Fear, maybe?

  “I gonna go back inside my shop now, Tony,” Mr. Casio said. He turned to go. Tony was dumbstruck. He reached for the injured man, just as he felt the stranger’s hand grab his wrist.

  “Hey, goomba,” the man began, his voice somewhat conciliatory.