City Blood

by Clark Howard

  Only then was the casket hearse’s rear doors opened and the casket rolled out on ball bearings for the pallbearers to lift up for the last thirty yards of its journey. The faces of the nine men, mobsters all, were cheerless, doleful, as they carried one of their elder statesmen to his final resting place.

  In his car, Kiley raised the binoculars again and focused them tight on the casket and its pallbearers.

  The nine men had gone only a few steps when the casket exploded.

  Twenty-Nine

  Kiley waited in the dark, sitting on a lawn chair he had opened, in one of the front corners of Gordon Lovat’s two-car garage. Lovat’s personal car, a Roadmaster station wagon, was parked on the right side of the garage, where Kiley sat; from time to time he put a foot on the wagon’s rear bumper and tilted back a little to change positions. It was nearly ten o’clock on Saturday night; he had been waiting there for an hour, since shortly before nine.

  Immediately after the explosion at the cemetery, Kiley had remained only a couple of minutes as the ugly black smoke cleared, focusing his binoculars on the carnage he had produced. There was, as far as he could tell, virtually nothing left of Fred Scarp’s cadaver and casket except splinters and pulp. Around a patch of scorched grass, some near, some farther back, lay the bodies of the pallbearers, some of them, Kiley noted, with arms or legs blown off. Kiley could not tell who was who because all of them were seared as black as the ground on which they lay.

  There was chaos all around the grave site: men shouting, women screaming, the funeral home’s private security escort officers running around in confusion. It was complete bedlam and disorder, and would remain so, Kiley imagined, for quite a while. From across the cemetery where its administration building was located, Kiley saw two small electric cars racing to the scene. Before long, he knew, there would be sirens as police and medical personnel sped to the scene. Taking one last, sweeping look at the pandemonium, Kiley could not help thinking: You were a good teacher, Hal.

  Without watching any longer, Kiley had driven away.

  Now he was sitting in the garage of Gordon Lovat’s condominium on Sheridan Road, waiting for the Organized Crime Bureau commander to return from a hastily called meeting of his deputy and staff at the Shop. Lovat had learned of the cemetery explosion about two hours after it occurred. He called the meeting for six p.m. Because the incident had taken place in the suburb of Mt. Canaan, which was in DuPage County, the Mt. Canaan police and the DuPage County sheriff had jurisdiction. Lovat had quickly contacted the heads of both those departments and offered the assistance of his bureau, but the offer was declined. Because certain Chicago organized crime figures had been involved, however, Lovat knew he would be called upon by the media to analyze and comment on the incident. After conferring with his people, he decided that OCB would take an initial position that it had likely been a professional assassination committed in an effort to liquidate all current ranking mob bosses to make way for a younger group of hoodlums to move up and assume control. At a subsequent press conference, Lovat would not speculate as to who those young crime lords were, but did emphasize to the press that his offer of assistance to the Mt. Canaan authorities would remain in effect in case those departments elected to accept it. Lovat had concluded his statement with a comment that he was on his way to make a personal report on the situation to Chief John Cassidy at his home.

  Kiley had learned all those facts from television news shows about the bombing, earlier reports of which had already been on the air by the time Kiley arrived home from the cemetery just before three o’clock. Preliminary information from the scene indicated that at least five pallbearers were known dead, among them North Side mob boss Philip Touhy, West Side boss Laurence Morowski, and Alfonse Morelli, chief lieutenant to Augustus Dellafranco, head of the South Side rackets. Dellafranco himself was reported alive but in critical condition with one arm and one leg blown off. No one had been injured other than the nine pallbearers, although half a dozen older men and women among the mourners had suffered shock and other emotional trauma.

  As the afternoon wore on, Kiley watched a brief interview with Gordon Lovat as he arrived at the Shop. Then there was news that two other bodies had been identified as Nathan Taub, of Detroit, and local mobster Michael O’Shea, who was known to hold a major position in the Touhy crime family. Videotaped coverage from the scene showed a great deal of commotion and confusion, with much rushing about of emergency medical personnel, and many mourners being led away by uniformed officers. To fill empty time between live coverage, film clips were shown of the late Fred Scarp’s rise in organized crime.

  By early evening, a report was broadcast that the second Jewish mobster, Abraham Lovitz, was also dead, and that another member of Philip Touhy’s Irish mob, Jocko Hennessey, had suffered the loss of both arms above the elbow. Bad day for the mob, boys, Kiley allowed himself to think as he sipped a straight gin and waited for the one report that still had not come in. He had almost not been able to wait for that news, because several minutes later there was televised live Gordon Lovat’s press conference at which he made clear the Chicago department’s position regarding the situation, then cut his own participation short, turning the press over to his deputy, so he could personally brief Chief Cassidy. Lovat’s departure from the press conference was Kiley’s signal to leave for Lovat’s condo. He had put his belt holster in place and was closing the Velcro strap on his ankle rig when the live broadcast cut away from the Shop and went back to the newsroom.

  “We have just received confirmation from Mt. Canaan police Lieutenant Jerome Fitch at Forrest Hospital in that suburb that a sixth body from the shocking cemetery bombing has been identified as Anthony Francis Touhy, age thirty, the younger brother of Philip Touhy, who was pronounced dead and identified earlier this afternoon—”

  “That’s for you, Nick,” Kiley said out loud to himself.

  Now, he thought, he was going to get the man who had loaned Tony Touhy the gun to kill Nick.

  It was twenty past ten when a spray of headlights swept under the closed garage door, and the automatic door opener near the garage’s ceiling engaged noisily to begin lifting the door in and back. Though he had been waiting for just such an indication of Gordon Lovat’s arrival for more than an hour, Kiley nevertheless was startled by the sudden light and sound. Quickly getting to his feet, he folded the lawn chair, hung it on a wall hook above where he had been sitting, and stood rigidly back out of sight in a foot-deep recessed niche next to the frame of the garage door. He drew his gun.

  As Lovat drove his unmarked police car in, an automatic light came on above a door across the garage from Kiley that led into Lovat’s condo. As the police car came to a halt and the overhang door began closing behind it, Kiley dropped to a crouch near the right rear tire of Lovat’s station wagon. When Lovat opened the car door to get out, Kiley moved with the noise around the rear of the station wagon and assumed the same crouch at the right rear tire of the police car. He waited, barely breathing, until Gordon Lovat, keys in hand, approached the door to his condo. Then Kiley stood and put the muzzle of his gun behind Lovat’s left ear.

  “Freeze, Captain,” he said in a quiet, even voice. “One move and I’ll kill you.”

  “I’m not moving,” Lovat said, whole body tensing, the hand with the keys suspended halfway to the door.

  Reaching around him, Kiley found Lovat’s gun in a shoulder holster and removed it. He put it in his coat pocket and stretched down to feel below both of Lovat’s calves for a second weapon.

  “I don’t carry a backup,” Lovat said.

  “You should,” Kiley told him, “if you’re going to loan your gun to other people.” He nudged Lovat’s head with the muzzle. “Open the door.”

  Lovat unlocked the door and pushed it open. Kiley noticed that as Lovat worked the key, his hand did not tremble. Watch him, Kiley warned himself, he doesn’t have a loose nerve in his body.

  “Turn on the lights,” Kiley ordered. Reaching insi
de, Lovat obeyed. “Hands on top of your head,” Kiley said then.

  “I should warn you that my wife is probably reading in the bedroom upstairs,” Lovat said.

  “Your wife is dead,” Kiley retorted flatly. “Constance Lemoyne Lovat died on October 20, 1989, of stomach cancer.” With his left hand, he took hold of the back of Lovat’s lapel and guided him into the condo. From the garage, a hall led past a small laundry room and into a kitchen. “Keep turning on lights,” Kiley ordered. From the kitchen, a second hall led to a dining area in one direction, and a large living room in another. Between them, a stairway led to the second floor.

  “I know your voice,” Lovat said, as Kiley moved him through the house to the living room.

  Kiley took him to a chair and had him stand in front of it for a moment while he reached down and felt around the cushion for a gun. Then Kiley stepped away from him. “Take your hands off your head and put them on the arms of the chair. Don’t move your hands unless I tell you to.”

  Lovat sat, turning to face Kiley for the first time.

  “Detective Kiley,” he said. “Of course. I might have known.” A slight half-smile, half-smirk settled on his lips, as if he had suddenly become aware that a danger had passed and that this was a situation that he was going to be able to handle. “You’ve ruined yourself this time, Kiley,” he said. “You’re through as a cop.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that, Captain,” said Kiley. “Maybe it’s you who’s through.” He took Lovat’s service revolver from his pocket. “Is this the gun that killed Nick Bianco?”

  “Are you out of your mind, Detective? You think I killed Nick Bianco?”

  “I think your gun killed him. Your gun—in Tony Touhy’s hand.”

  Lovat’s expression of surprise was quickly replaced by sudden cognizance. “Is that what this is all about? You’re still after Tony Touhy?” The captain sat forward, turning his palms up. “He’s dead, Kiley—”

  “I told you not to move your hands,” Kiley said, cocking the hammer of his revolver.

  “All right—!” Lovat responded urgently, at once sitting back with his hands on the chair arms again.

  “Tony Touhy being dead isn’t enough,” Kiley told him evenly. “Maybe that pays for Nick; it doesn’t pay for Gloria Mendez.” He shook his head almost miserably. “Why the fuck did you have to kill her too? She wasn’t a threat to you anymore—”

  “Kiley, listen to me,” Lovat said in a precise voice. “Uncock your pistol. We’ve got to talk, you and I, but I can’t do it as long as you’ve got that hammer back.”

  “We don’t have anything to talk about, Lovat,” said Kiley, voice flat again. “You’re a dirty cop and you were part of killing two other cops. Now it’s time for you to pay. All I want to know is why? Why Gloria?”

  “Uncock your gun, Joe, and I’ll tell you.” Lovat’s voice eased into a thoughtful, reasoning tone.

  Uncocking the gun, Kiley sat heavily on the couch facing Lovat’s chair.

  “What makes you think you’re right about all this?” Lovat asked.

  “I know I’m right about Nick because Fraz Lamont told me,” Kiley replied confidently.

  “Fraz Lamont? The nigger gang leader?” Lovat had to force his incredulity. “And you believed him?” He shook his head. “I think you’ve lost it, Kiley. You’re over the edge.”

  “I think you lost it when you decided to kill Gloria Mendez. It wasn’t necessary. She and I were ready to drop Tony Touhy in the chief’s lap. All you had to do was let that punk go down and I never would have tied you in. It would have stopped right there.”

  “What makes you think you have tied me in?” Lovat asked with a smile that was sincere now. “My gun could have been stolen. I can back date a report to that effect. That’ll take care of the Bianco incident. As to Mendez, well, what makes you think your spic policewoman friend didn’t kill herself the way the coroner’s report reads?”

  “Similar bruises on the backs of both hands,” Kiley said. “I think they were made from a pair of older model handcuffs that didn’t close down as far as the newer ones do. Handcuffs that work fine on a man’s wrist, but are a little too large for the wrists of a woman or an adolescent. Gloria Mendez was handcuffed with a pair of those old bracelets and when she struggled”—Kiley’s eyes turned hard and hateful—“when she struggled because pills and liquor were being forced into her mouth, those cuffs were pulled down across the backs of her hands and left marks.” Kiley’s hard eyes narrowed. “Let me see your handcuffs, Captain.”

  “I don’t carry handcuffs, Kiley. I’m not a common street cop.”

  “No, you’re a big-shot desk cop: exactly the kind of cop who’d have an old pair of cuffs.” Kiley glanced around. “They’re around here someplace, aren’t they?”

  “Why don’t you search the place?” Lovat suggested. “Finding an old pair of cuffs isn’t going to prove a goddamned thing.” Lovat shook his head. “Kiley, stop this insanity before it goes any further. I could be a lot of help to you if you’d just be reasonable.”

  “What kind of help?” Kiley asked wryly. “You going to set me up in business like you’ve done your daughter and her husband and his brother?”

  Now it was Lovat’s eyes that narrowed. “I think I’ve underestimated you, Detective. What else do you know?”

  “Just about everything, I think. A few years ago you took a look at the street violence being brought about by the conflict between the three white mob families and the black street gangs. You saw that the mobs were losing their grip in the black neighborhoods, but that the black gangs that were taking over weren’t smart enough to profit from their new power. Fraz Lamont himself is a very smart man, but the majority of his Disciples are on the slow side; he’s got no experienced labor pool to draw from. But his people can intimidate. So you got to him some way, without telling him who you were, and showed him how he could control his neighborhoods and make money too. All he had to do was let the white mob boys operate under his protection for a flat fee. In effect, you showed the Disciples how the old protection racket operates. Then you arranged a meeting with Phil Touhy and the other bosses, who did know who you were, and you offered them not only a plan to get back the neighborhoods they had lost, but also a certain amount of immunity from OCB investigation, in return for a cut of the profits to you and a protection fee to Lamont. Touhy and the others went for it, because part of something is better than all of nothing. You set yourself up as an arbitrator to make sure any differences between the parties were settled without a fight. After you had that all arranged and the money started coming in, you started setting up businesses in the names of your daughter and son-in-law, and his brother and the brother’s wife, to launder the dirty money you were getting—”

  “That’s ludicrous,” Lovat interrupted. “It’s a perfect example of what I said to you in one of the meetings following Bianco’s death: You’re a street cop and you have no concept of the broader picture of law enforcement in this city. There’s no need to launder mob money in Chicago. We aren’t talking about millions upon millions of dollars in Colombian drug money here; Phil Touhy and the others don’t even deal in drugs. We’re talking about thousands of dollars—five thousand here, ten thousand there—money from gambling, prostitution, hijacked merchandise: offenses that are either victimless or affect only large companies that pass the losses on to their insurance carriers. The money that went into those corporations for the kids wasn’t to set up a laundering operation or anything else illegal; it was to get them started in legitimate businesses that they could pass on to their kids—” He stopped talking and shook his head again. “I don’t know why I’m trying to explain this to you, Kiley.”

  “Maybe to justify why two cops had to die,” Kiley said.

  “Bianco and Gloria Mendez didn’t die because of anything I did,” Lovat shook his head emphatically. “They died because both of them broke the rules; both of them went beyond the book. They stepped across the line and they paid a p
rice for it.”

  “ Like you’ve stepped across the line?” Kiley asked.

  “Not at all,” Lovat declared. “What I did, Detective, was stop the street violence between the white mobs and the black gangs. What I did was the job I was given to do by the department. This city is a safer place today because of the deal I made between the mobs and the Disciples.” Lovat suddenly leaned forward, and this time Kiley did not object. “Try to understand what I’m saying,” Lovat asked with a new urgency. “I don’t know what you’ve got in mind here tonight, but understand something: killing me to get revenge for Bianco or Mendez won’t solve anything. There was a major mob assassination a few hours ago; the Touhy brothers are dead, Larry Morowski is dead, Augie Dellafranco is crippled for life. There’ll be a whole new generation of mob lieutenants moving up. It’s essential that the pact with Fraz Lamont be kept in place; if not, a whole new era of street violence is going to begin. If you’ll just try to be reasonable, Joe, there can be a place in all of this for you—”

  “I am being reasonable,” Kiley asserted. “I can understand Nick being killed; after he walked in on your meeting at the Shamrock that night, maybe Touhy, Morowski, and the others insisted that he be killed. Maybe there was no way you could stop it. But Gloria Mendez had to be your call, Captain: nobody else knew about her—”