Conduct Unbecoming

by Sinclair, Georgia

  He dragged a hand over his face and moved on to the bathroom, which was small enough that he could probably stand in the center, reach out his arms and touch both walls at the same time. He slid the shower curtain back to find shampoo and conditioner, soap, and a pink - pink? - razor. There was shaving cream and more razors - not pink, interestingly enough - a couple of toothbrushes and some toothpaste, a half-empty bottle of over the counter pain killer and a box of tampons.

  It would appear that baby brother had a friend.

  The bedroom, which he saved for last, wasn't much bigger than the bathroom. Double bed, neatly made, night stands on both sides. There was an alarm clock and a couple of condoms on one of the tables, a Suzanne Brockmann paperback and some pretty-smelling hand lotion on the other.

  So, not just a friend, but a friend who slept over. Way to go, kid.

  Enzo’s clothes were neatly folded and tucked away in dresser drawers, along with a couple of pairs of silky women’s undies and a sheer, pink nighty. His checkbook and a thin stack of bills was in there, too. Cable, electric, a couple of credit card statements, all with low balances and up-to-date payments. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  He probably emptied his pockets into the little dish on top of the dresser. Some change, a pack of gum, and - hello - several matchbooks from Roxi's. One of them even had a phone number scrawled inside in his brother's familiar, parochial school handwriting.

  Curious, Dante dug his cellphone out and dialed it, then hung up when a computer generated voice invited him to leave a message.

  Tomorrow he needed to talk to Enzo's partner, maybe even check out Roxi's, but tonight he could barely keep his eyes open. He yawned and kicked off his shoes, stipped down to his boxer briefs before he stretched out on his brother’s bed. And not even the flashing neon Arturo’s sign outside his window could keep him awake.

  * * * *

  “Off, Tolstoy.” Harley gave the surly gray cat a shove, but it was like trying to move a small car off her keyboard. He didn’t give an inch. Instead he glared at her, his gold eyes slitted with disdain. “How am I supposed to work if I can't get to my keyboard, hmm?” She smoothed a hand over his enormous head, down his long, sleek back. Scooped him up off the little kitchen table that doubled as her desk, all seventeen pounds of him, and pressed her face into his fur. “Five more minutes, cat, and we'll wrap it up. I promise.”

  She scratched his belly for a minute, leaned over and dropped him onto the floor. He landed with a solid thud, gave one last irritated meow before he ambled out of the room.

  Harley tipped her chair back on two legs to watch the cat wind his way around the doorjamb and into her bedroom. He hopped up on the end of her bed, walking in a couple of tight little circles before he settled in for the night.

  Tolstoy wasn’t the only one ready for bed. Three hours over her keyboard and her back was killing her. It was still hot outside, too, but she’d changed into a ribbed tank and some baggy boxer shorts after her date, so it wasn't too bad.

  The windows were open, the high-pitched wail of sirens floating in on the breeze. She could hear traffic from out in front of her building, too, along with bits and pieces of muted conversation from the sidewalk, the steady thwack thwack thwack of the ceiling fan overhead.

  She hit print one last time before she shut down her computer, sending another sheet of paper spitting into the tray on the other side of the room. Gathered up her printouts and tucked them into a folder, flipped the lights off on her way to bed.

  Harley loved research. Loved digging up all those obscure little bits and pieces that brought a story to life. And, being the geek that she was, she was good at it. But the fact of the matter was, anyone with access to the internet could find enough on Dante and Lorenzo Giancana to write this story.

  And yes, this story - the story she was determined to tell - was as much Dante’s as it was Lorenzo’s.

  They were local boys, born and raised, third generation Chicago PD. Both attended Catholic schools, Lorenzo as a star athlete with above average grades; Dante just scraping by, though oddly enough, his ACT's were off the charts. While Lorenzo spent his teenage years as an altar boy, Dante racked up a couple of petty, inconsequential brushes with the law - alcohol related, for the most part, typical kid stuff - nothing significant enough to keep him out of the academy.

  When he joined the force, though, all that changed. He received a commendation for talking a suicidal teen off a bridge, another for rescuing a pregnant woman in a hostage situation. It was like somebody flipped a switch. The guy had a really promising future, one that came to a sudden, heartbreaking halt when his partner, Patrick Gallagher, died in an alley behind a seedy Englewood bar.

  There were ugly allegations of corruption, against Dante's partner, against Dante himself. Gut wrenching video of the partner's funeral, a bleak affair with none of the bagpipes or pomp and circumstance a cop's death should have warranted. Video of his partner's very pregnant widow sobbing that Dante had killed her husband. Powerful stuff.

  The fact that the charges were ultimately dropped didn't make much difference. The damage was done. When he left the force six years ago he was a pariah.

  There was a story here alright. All Harley had to do was convince her boss that it was hers to tell.

  Chapter 7

  With a cardboard cup carrier in one hand and a white bakery bag in the other, Harley shouldered the double glass doors open into the lobby. She usually took the stairs up to the second floor, but between the coffee, the pastries and her lucky high heels it was out of the question. Instead, she balanced the bag on top of the cups, pressed the UP button and stepped into the empty elevator.

  She waited until the door slid shut, smiled and said, “So, Sybil, I was wondering...” She cleared her throat, tried again. “Hey Sybil, do you think I...?” She huffed out a breath, grumbled a surly, “come on Harley, time to grow a pair.”

  By the time the doors opened again she was ready. Well, as ready as she'd ever be. She pulled her shoulders back and walked into the unusually quiet space.

  There were a couple offices along the back wall - cubicles, anyway, with chest high padded walls - but most of the Voice's staff worked out in the open, in the middle of this large, warehouse-type space.

  The decor was pretty much what you'd expect from a little independent newspaper in an extremely competitive market. A paper who could barely cover it's payroll, let alone an upscale rent. Beige carpet, beige walls, beige chairs, even the desks scattered around the center of the room were beige.

  It was seldom empty, or quiet for that matter, and when it was, it could be a little depressing. When it was full, the way it would be in just about half an hour, with phones ringing and keyboards clacking and forty-five voices all scrambling to be heard? Well that, as Dorothy would say, was a horse of another color.

  Harley stopped at her desk for a second, just long enough to tuck her purse into the bottom drawer. She took the coffee and pastries with her to the office in the far corner, hovered in the open doorway. Lifted the bag of goodies up in front of her face, slowly waved it back and forth. “I come bearing gifts.”

  “Do not toy with me child.” Harley's editor and friend, Sybil Harbaugh, lifted her eyebrows, looked up at Harley over the top of a pair of narrow, half-moon glasses.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Harley grinned. “I believe this venti mocha latte might be just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Extra whipped cream?”

  “Of course,” Harley snorted.

  “Bless you, child. Bless you.” Sybil gestured for her to come in, grabbing at the coffee with both hands.

  “Glad to help.” Harley plopped down in the chair across from Sybil. She reached into the white bag for a lemon pastry before sliding the bag in Sybil’s direction. Nodded at the papers spread across the desk between them. “So what’s all this?”

  “Robbing Peter to pay Paul.”

  “Ah, the dreaded budget.”

  “The bain of
my existence.” Sybil took a bite out of her roll, her eyes drifting shut for a second or two. “Jesus, where'd you get this?”

  “Tres Doux. That new place down the block.” Harley crossed one leg over the other, dangling a ridiculously impractical stack-heeled pump off her toes. She took a bite herself, licked powdered sugar from her thumb. “'S good, isn't it?”

  “Mmm hmm.” Sybil mumbled around another mouthful, swallowed. “So what's the occasion?”

  “Well geez.” Harley lifted her shoulders, fussing absently with the hem on her skirt. “Who says there has to be an occasion?”

  Sybil leaned back in her chair and waited. Just waited.

  “Fine,” Harley huffed, rolled her eyes. “Maybe there was something I wanted to run by you.”

  “I'm all ears.”

  “Okay. Remember my neighbor? Monica?”

  Sybil slowly nodded. “The one who's obsessed with South Park. From...” she snapped her fingers, “where the Hell is she from? Bumfuck, Indiana?”

  “I never said she was obsessed.” Harley laughed. “But she is from Indianapolis.”

  “You say tomato, I say tomato.” Sybil waved her hand. “And you’re the one who said she has a Cartman tattoo on her butt. In my book, that qualifies as obsessed.”

  “Shhh.” Harley laughed again, she couldn't help it. “She'd be mortified if she knew you knew about that tattoo.”

  “Her secret's safe with me.” Sybil took another bite.

  “Good.” Harley nodded. “So in a moment of weakness, I let Monica talk me into meeting her brother's college roommate for drinks last night.”

  “Typical.” Sybil rolled her eyes. “You get drinks with a strapping, corn-fed farm boy and I get a raspberry danish. An exceptional raspberry danish, but still...”

  “Trust me, you got the better end of the deal.”

  “Ouch.” Sybil winced.

  “No kidding.” Harley took a big drink of coffee. “Anyway, when I left the bar I noticed a bunch of CPD patrol cars and a Channel 3 news van across the street. At St. Ignatius.”

  “Across from St. Ignatius? That’s that new martini place, isn’t it? Sammy's? Didn't you do a review on them? I seem to recall something about a blow pop martini.”

  “Uh huh. They're pink and made with bubblegum flavored vodka.” Harley cringed. “Disgusting. And since I had a margarita last night, not relevant to this story.”

  “Sorry,” Sybil conceded, lifting her hands, palms up. “Go on.”

  “Augie was there. You know, the camera guy from Channel 3 who’s always going on and on about Sasquatch?” When Sybil nodded, Harley continued. “Well he was telling me all about this shooting in Xavier Heights.”

  “A shooting in Xavier Heights, my child, is not news. Sadly, it’s a daily occurrence.”

  “Maybe,” she conceded. “But I don’t imagine they usually involve rookie cops who could pass for choirboys if their pockets weren’t stuffed with drugs and cash.” Harley leaned forward, lowered her voice. “Rookie cops whose infamous, older brothers have had their own,” she hooked her fingers in the air, “issues with the law.”

  “Older brothers?” Sybil frowned.

  “Does the name Dante Giancana ring a bell?”

  Sybil’s eyes lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree. “Holy shit. Dante Giancana is this,” she gestured, drawing circles in the air, “baby cop’s brother?”

  “Yep.”

  “He dropped off the map after the trial, even though it seems like I read that the charges were dropped.” Sybil spun a ring around on her finger, back and forth, deep in thought. “The press crucified him, as I recall. He’ll never cooperate now.”

  “Well, he had drinks with a member of the press last night.” Of course he didn’t know she was with the press, but whatever.

  “Okay.” Sybil nodded. “It’s official. You now have my full attention.”

  “There's a story here, Sybil, I know there is.” Harley curled her fingers into a fist, pressed it to her diaphragm. “I can feel it.”

  “So we should call Marshall in.” Marshall Davis had covered the crime beat for years, and Sybil knew exactly what Harley thought of him. “I know you don't like him, but he-”

  “I don't like him.” Harley cut her off, leaned forward in her chair. “He's a pompous, egotistical ass. A chauvinistic pig who's been just... calling it in for as long as I've known him.”

  Sybil pressed her fingers to her temple. A headache, maybe? “Harley-”

  Harley lifted a finger, cut her off again. “But, that's got nothing to do with this. He's got nothing to do with this. This is about me being the right person to tell this story. I've already started the research. I’ve even got a couple of sources lined up. Not to mention my connection with Dante Giancana.” An exaggeration, yes, but not an out-and-out lie.

  “I think-”

  Harley jumped in again. “I know a Degree in Comparative Literature doesn't exactly scream investigative reporter, but when you hired me you promised me a chance. You said if I put my time in on the fluff - which I have - you’d let me try something... more. Something real.”

  “Harley-”

  “I can do this, Sybil. And after a million pieces about blow pop martinis and... and... clog dancing I think I at least deserve a shot at it.”

  “Alright.”

  “I mean I realize-” Harley stopped in mid sentence, frowned. “Wait. What?”

  “I said alright.” Sybil lifted her shoulders. “I promised you a chance at features once you'd proved yourself on the human interest pieces, and you’ve done that. I'm not saying you won't be writing about vegetables that look like ex-presidents next week, but we'll give it a try.”

  Harley blinked. “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack, sweetie. Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

  * * * *

  Dante pulled the door shut behind him and locked it, reached up to put the key back where he'd found it, up on the ledge above the door. He considered taking it with him, but couldn’t bring himself to actually do it. This was his brother's place, not his. When Enzo came home - when, not if - things were going to be the way he'd left them.

  The metal stairs up to the apartment were solid, but they clattered and clanked when Dante went down them. When a familiar face popped out of the bar - to check on the noise, most likely - Dante ducked inside to say hi.

  “Dante.” The day shift bartender, Tommy Angelo, a stocky black man with the thick neck of a weightlifter, came out from behind the bar with his arms wide open, gave Dante a bone-crushing hug. “Good to see you, man. I heard about Enzo. How's he doin'?”

  “When I called this morning they said there wasn’t much change. They're hoping he's stable enough today to get him back into surgery.”

  “You need anything you let me know, ya here?”

  “Thanks, appreciate that man.” Dante turned to leave, then stopped. “Hey, do you know if Enzo still plays basketball?”

  “Sure, yeah. Coupla times a week. Over at St. Michael's, mostly.”

  “Thanks, man.” Dante nodded absently. “I'll check it out.”

  Chapter 8

  When he was a kid, Dante used to look for excuses to come down to the 115th. Pop forgot his lunch? No problem. Dante would run it over on his way to school, never mind that the detour added at least ten minutes to his route. Unexpected snow storm? He'd pester his mom until she loaded that big green thermos with hot cocoa and then he'd rush it over like he was delivering the cure for cancer or something.

  In those days, cops - Pop included - wore crisp blue uniforms and smelled like Old Spice or Brut, their black wingtips buffed to a mirror-bright shine. There were women working at the precinct - it was the 90's, for Christ sake - but Dante didn’t really remember any of them clearly.

  What he did remember, besides the uniforms and the wingtips, was the smell of burnt coffee and the fat, pink wintergreen lozenges his father kept in his locker.

  Now the place reeked of cigare
ttes, which was odd, really, since the building had been smoke-free since 2007. It stunk of sweat, too, and urine and some sort of industrial cleanser that was probably supposed to smell like pine, but didn't even come close.

  And right now he’d rather be just about anywhere else on the planet.

  He lifted a hand to knock on the door, but before his knuckles made contact it swung open from the inside. Leo sucked in air, pressed his palm to his chest. “Damnit, Dante, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  Leo stuck his head out of his office and looked up and down the hall, grabbed Dante's arm and pulled him inside. He tugged the shade down to block the window, snapped, “How’d you get back here?”

  “I walked right in.” Dante lifted his shoulders, glared. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m not a disgruntled ex-employee, huh?”

  “Everybody’s a fucking comedian,” Leo muttered, shook his head in disgust. “I thought I told you I’d call when I heard from IA.”

  “Great.” Dante didn’t bother to fake a smile. “But in the meantime I want to take a look at Enzo's locker.” The older man's face grayed and he opened his mouth to argue, but Dante cut him off. “And I need to talk to his partner, the guys he worked with,” he swore under his breath, shook his head. “Works with.” Goddammit, if he didn’t stop thinking of his brother in the past tense, how could he expect anybody else too?

  “The locker's one thing, Dante, but these guys? I just don’t see how...” Leo let the words trail away, but the implication was clear. The days of Dante having friends on the Chicago PD were long gone.

  “I'm not here to make friends, Leo.” A muscle at the corner of Dante's mouth twitched and jumped. “And this isn’t negotiable. Either you make it happen, or I will.”

  “Okay, okay.” Leo scrubbed at his furrowed forehead for a moment. “I'll see what I can do. But you gotta remember, these guys,” he hesitated, shook his head, “these guys are always gonna wonder-”