Vino’s face flushed darker for a moment and he reached forward and slapped Tommy’s face. Then he jerked back, his forehead and neck reddening, to match the bright blotch on his cheek.
“Chooch!" Vino said. “Next time do it like I fuckin’ tell ya. You think we’re dealing with fuckin’ amateurs? These feds smell blood, they pull out all the stops.” He turned and flung the putter across the room, watching it crash into the wall, then he stripped off his golf-gloves. “Go out and help Gloria watch the cameras, for Christ’s sake.” He waited until Tommy left the room before turning to the big white-haired man who’d been standing there with his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket the whole time. “You Germaine?”
“Vincent Phillip Germaine at your service, sir” he said, moving forward, extending his hand. Vino grasped it. “This is my friend and associate Mr. Queen,” Germaine added, cocking his head toward Gumbo. Vino just nodded. The black man did the same, but made no move to go toward him, which was all right with Vino, who wasn’t about to shake hands with no shine.
“Mr. Moretti told me you had a rather pressing problem that needed our immediate attention,” Germaine said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Vino said, moving around behind his desk and taking out a cigar. He offered one to Germaine, who took one, and to Gumbo, who only shook his head slightly.
“Moretti speaks real highly of you. I heard they call you ‘The Regulator,’” Vino said, sitting in the big leather chair and lighting his cigar.
Germaine, who’d been smelling his cigar with an expression of delight, smiled as he took out a gold butane lighter.
“A little title bestowed upon me for my considerable efforts to handle any problem with the utmost efficiency.” He flicked the lighter and twirled the cigar end in the flame. “Ahh, an excellent blend of tobacco, sir, for which I thank you.” He blew out a prodigious cloud of smoke, then sat back in the chair in front of the desk and grinned congenially. “Now, Mr. Costelli, why don’t we get down to brass tacks, as they say?”
Vino considered this, pursed up his lips, and began.
“I got this lieutenant in my organization,” he said. “The guy’s been like a brother to me. We came up through the ranks together. His name’s Johnny Osmand, but we always called him the Mink, cause of his hair.” He paused to draw on the cigar, then shook his head slowly before he went on. “He’s under indictment. The Feds. Now I got it from a good source that he’s getting ready to flip.”
“And you wish for him not to do that?” Germaine said sympathetically.
“I wish I had the motherfucker’s balls in my hand right now,” Vino said, raising his hand up and clenching it into a quick fist. He held the fist in front of him for a moment, then dropped it. “But it ain’t that simple.”
Germaine raised his eyebrows.
“He’s got something on me,” Vino said. “Something I need to recover, before I can do anything.”
“And what is this item?” the southerner asked.
Vino looked down and scratched his forehead.
“It’s a videotape,” he said. “You know, one of those cassettes from a VCR.”
“I see,” Germaine said. “Well, I will need to find out more about Mr. Osmand, as well as the services of two or three of your best men, a car, and some other sundries.”
“Yeah, whatever you need, you just tell Tommy,” Vino said. “There’s just one other thing.”
Germaine looked at him attentively.
Vino leaned forward and spoke in a guttural snarl: “I wanta nail the motherfucker myself. Right here.”
Tuesday, April 14, 1992
1:30 P.M.
Tony punched out the familiar rhythm on the speed bag with rote skill. It gave him immense pleasure that, after all these years, he could still keep a pretty decent beat going. Not like his Navy days, but what the hell, that’d been some time ago. So what if he’d lost maybe half-a-step. He glanced at the wall timer and saw that he had about ten seconds left, so he went from double strikes to single ones, increasing the speed of the bounce-back. When the buzzer sounded he let his arms fall and stepped back.
“Lookin’ good, Tony,” a voice said from behind him. It was Nate Wells, one of the guys from Gang Crimes South. Nate was in his early thirties, as tall as Tony, and with a body that looked like carved ebony. He held up his open palm and he and Tony exchanged a high five. “Mind if I work in?”
Tony grinned and shook his head. Nate began pulling on his bag gloves, the muscles in his dark forearms standing out like steel cables.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Nate said. “Was wondering if you’d pulled the pin, or something.”
“Nope, not till September, anyway,” Tony said. “Then I’ll have to.”
“Well, even LeRoy had to leave when his number came up,” Nate said, referring to LeRoy Martin, the Police Superintendent who’d recently stepped down after reaching mandatory retirement age. “But you look good. Been comin’ here regular?”
“Yeah,” Tony said. “Me and my partner usually come in the afternoons. After court.”
“You still in Organized Crime?”
“Un-huh. How about you? Gang Crimes?”
“Yep, workin’ the Roseland area now,” Nate said. “Shit, it’s getting real bad. Fuckin’ gangbangers getting to be just like the new Mafioso.”
Tony thought about saying that he could remember when the Roseland neighborhood was one of the jewels of the South Side, but didn’t want Nate to take it the wrong way because the area was predominantly black now. Instead, Tony moved over to the heavy bag and began working jabs and hooks into it. Nate, in the meantime, had begun pounding on the speed bag, his dark arms working like pistons, flashing so fast they were only a blur. Tony thought of his own recent performance on that apparatus and suddenly realized that he’d lost more than just half-a-step. Maybe it was time for him to step down. Let the younger guys take over the long fight. He smacked a double jab into the bag then followed up with a right cross, left hook combination. Then another left hook, with everything behind it. Just like the one that had broken Vino Costelli’s jaw so many years ago. No, god dammit, he’d finish it. Take Vino out before he stepped down. It was something he had to do. The timer showed twenty seconds left so he moved in close, set his legs, and worked a flurry of body punches to the heavy canvas surface. When he finished he stepped back and saw Nate staring at him.
“Shit, man, you really tearing into that motherfucker, whoever he is.” A broad grin spread over Nate’s face. “Anybody in particular?”
“Vino Costelli,” Tony gasped out.
“The ol’ Godfather himself, huh? Got him in your sights yet?”
“Maybe,” Tony said, still out of breath. “Got one of his made-men ready to flip.”
Nate nodded approvingly.
“That’s the only way,” he said. “Got me a snitch working both sides of the fence too. Used to be in with the gangs real tight. Did some time, now he’s out. Convicted burglar on probation. Got caught shoplifting some Jack Daniels. He got him a little drinkin’ problem. So I been squeezing him to keep me posted on the activities of the local shitheads.”
Tony’s beeper went off, and he stripped off the bag gloves and pressed the acknowledge button. It was Arlene’s private line. He tapped Nate’s right glove and went into the locker room to the pay-phone. Fishing a quarter out of the pocket of his sweatpants, he dropped it in and dialed.
She answered on the first ring.
“Arlene, it’s Tony. What’s up?” He strained to hear over the raucous conversations of the other men.
“Hi. Where are you? Sounds like you’re in a bar or something.”
“No, Ray and I been going over to the old Police Armory Building to work out every afternoon. Usually we stop on the way home, but since everything got canceled today, we came early.”
“Wow,” she said, the admiration evident in her voice. “That’s what I should be doing. I’m gaining so much weight sitting around all day.”
“Naw, you look great,” he said, forming a mental picture of her. He paused.
“Well, I just wanted to tell you that Fred’s okayed the deal for Osmand,” she said. “It’s just a matter of working out all the formalities and waiting for things to get functioning at the Dirksen Building. Isn’t this flood thing unreal?” She punctuated the question with a giggle.
Tony thought of how her laughter sounded like musical chimes. So much like Mary’s used to.
“Any idea as to when that may be?” he asked.
“They’re hopeful that they can get the elevators working by Wednesday or Thursday,” she said. “The first floor, basement, and parking area aren’t going to be in full service until they can plug the leak, but they said that things on the upper floors should be operational. This is the first time I can ever remember the city being shut down like this.”
Tony could remember other times. During the riots of the sixties. He shuddered at the memory and hoped he’d never have to go through another one of those.
“So all I have to do is get a hold of Reggie and work out the details,” Arlene said.
“Not by yourself, I hope,” Tony said.
“Oh gosh, no,” she said. “If they want to meet I can always call you or Kent.”
A fat lot of good that idiot would be, Tony thought. But he said, “You’re going to keep me posted, right?”
“Of course I will,” she said. Her voice seemed to soften and she said something else, but it was rendered indistinguishable by the intrusion of the computerized operator’s voice: “Five cents more, please.” Tony fished in his pocket for more change, but came up empty.
“Arlene I couldn’t hear you,” he said quickly. “I’m out of change.”
“I said—” Her voice was cut off again by the automated, “Please deposit five cents for the past one minute.”
He could hear Arlene’s laugh again, then she quickly said, “Tony, I’ll talk to you later. Don’t worry.”
The connection was broken and as he hung up, he wondered what it was she’d said. He sighed, and headed back out to the gym area. Ray was in the ring sparring with one of the guys from the raid team. The guy was probably close to a half-a-foot taller than Ray and had a big, rangy build. He was trying to keep Ray off by using a piston-like jab, but the little Italian was adept at slipping under it, cutting off the ring, and punishing the bigger man with sharp body blows. They made a thwacking sound each time one connected. Tony winced, knowing the power in Ray’s short, swift punches. He walked over to the edge of the apron and watched. Ray ducked inside again and pummeled his taller opponent with a flurry just as the round bell rang. They paused and slapped gloves. The big guy spit his mouthpiece out and said he had to go. Tony smiled up at his partner as the other man bent, with considerable effort, to step through the ropes. Ray moved to the corner right above Tony and rested his arms on the bands of the turnbuckle.
“That was quite a performance,” Tony said, grinning.
“Shit,” Ray sputtered. He spit out his mouthpiece and held it in his sixteen-ounce glove. “How about holding the focus pads for me?”
“Sure.” Tony grabbed the two flat pads out of Ray’s ditty bag on the table next to the ring, and went up the three steps. His partner stepped on the bottom strand of rope to lower it a little. While Tony was working his hands into the focus mitts, Ray squatted, reaching thorough the ropes to toss his mouthpiece down onto the bag. He stood up, glanced at the ring timer which was coming up on the ten second warning, and nodded at Tony. “Ready?” he asked. Tony slapped the pads together and began dancing backwards toward the center of the ring. Ray followed him and worked his jab into the extended pad.
“So who beeped you?” he grunted.
“Arlene.”
“Oh,” he sent another jab at the pad. “No wonder you ran outta here so fast. Quickest I seen you move all day.”
When Tony said nothing, Ray grinned wolfishly and worked a three punch combination.
“So what did she want?” Ray asked.
“Looks like the Mink’s gonna go for the deal. Foreman’s okayed it. Soon as things get back to normal we’ll probably work out the details. The way I figure it, they’ll probably want to keep it a secret and convene a special grand jury so we can get the indictments, then grab Vino’s ass before he gets wise and takes off.”
Ray paused and crossed his hands in front of his waist, signaling Tony to do the same so Ray could simulate body punches. Tony crisscrossed the pads and Ray pelted them.
“So is that all?” he asked. “She say anything else?”
“Nothing important,” Tony said. “Why?”
“I was just wondering if she wanted to jump your bones or anything.”
Tony pursed his lips. “You oughta consider keeping that mouthpiece in when you do this. You’re wasting too much energy flapping your jaws.”
“Well, did she?”
“Will you knock it off,” Tony said somewhat petulantly. “She’s young enough to be my daughter, for Christ’s sake.”
“No she’s not,” Ray said, then flashed the wolfish grin again. “She’s young enough to be your granddaughter.” He leaned back and Tony swept the focus pad in an arc at Ray’s head, allowing him to duck back to slip, then bore in with a counter combination. Ray seemed to sense that Tony had been stung by that last remark, and tried to soften it slightly. “If you were from the projects, that is. You know, if you woulda had a kid when you were twelve or thirteen, or something.”
Tony showed no reaction to the wisecrack.
“Hey, Tony, I was just kiddin’,” he said, pausing to drop his hands. “Okay?”
“No, it’s not okay,” Tony said. “You drop your hands like that in the ring again, even an old man like me will drop you.”
Ray instantly put up his hands and bore in, throwing quick short punches at the pads.
“Maybe you ought to ask her out,” he said. “No kiddin’. Really. Age doesn’t mean shit nowadays.”
“It does to me,” Tony said. “Besides, she’s got the hots for Faulkner.”
“That wimp,” Ray snorted. He threw two more punches as if to punctuate his statement. “You’re twice the man that fucker is.”
Tony held one of the pads up flat so that Ray could work the uppercut. He moved in and belted the pad toward the ceiling.
“Watch it when you do that,” Tony said. “You’re steppin’ in to throw it. That leaves you open for a counter right.”
Ray nodded, threw a couple of jabs, then moved to the side.
“Maybe if I can get into good enough shape, I’ll enter the Police Olympics,” Ray said. “Have to lose about ten pounds to get back down to middleweight.”
Tony glanced at the clock, saw there were only about fifteen seconds left, and held up each of the pads. Ray, knowing this meant that it was the end of the round, began to alternate punches as fast as he could for the entire time, until the bell rang. Then he dropped his hands and grinned.
“Got a good one that time,” he said. “Thanks, Tony.”
Tony nodded, resting his arms on top of the ropes. Ray came over next to him.
“Say, partner,” he said. “You ain’t pissed off at me for kidding around a little are you?”
“A little of your kidding goes a long way,” Tony said.
Ray considered this, then said, “What I was getting at was being lonely. I know Arlene likes you, and what I meant was that it ain’t no big deal nowadays, if a guy your age wants to—”
“Can it, would ya?”
“Yeah, I will,” Ray said, drooping one of the oversized gloves over Tony’s shoulder. “But when all is said and done, don’t say I didn’t try to tell you.”
Tony heaved a sigh.
“In fact,” Ray said, “I’m just gonna say one more thing.”
“Only one more? Are you sure? Let me call the Guinness Book of Records.”
Ray smirked.
“Like I said. I’m only gonna say this once,” he glanced at To
ny and his face seemed to take on a look of seriousness. “Maybe you ought to consider getting yourself a dog.” The infectious grin spread over his face again.
“What do I need a dog for?” Tony asked. “You keep giving me all the shit I can handle.”
Ray laughed and leaned over the ropes next to his partner.
“Well,” he said. “Once the Mink flips and we get that special grand jury indictment, we’ll be looking at putting Vino away by the end of the summer. Then the only thing we’ll have to worry about is planning the best damn retirement party in the history of the department for you.”
“I hope,” Tony said with a sigh.
“Whaddya mean, you hope?” Ray said. “It’s practically a done deal now. All over but the crying for Vino, only he don’t know it yet. The Mink’s gonna flip, all we got to do is keep him on ice till he testifies, and the Feds’ll do that. What could go wrong now?”
Tony shrugged.
“You know what Yogi Berra used to say,” he said. “It ain’t over till it’s over.”
Tuesday, April 14, 1992
3:00 P.M.
Reginald D. Fox finished packing his heavy leather briefcase and leaned forward placing his fingers and thumbs on the desktop. Had he forgotten anything? He hadn’t, he decided, and flipped the case shut. As he slipped on his overcoat, he glanced at his Rolex. Three o’clock. Good. It would feel good to get out of here early for a change. Maybe he could even beat the rush-hour traffic if he got to his car soon enough. Then he remembered: the Loop was still shut down. There really wasn’t any rush hour to speak of. His office building, in the North Loop, was one of the few that was open. He could afford a leisurely walk to the parking garage. All he had to be concerned with was which of his girlfriends he would take to dinner. He didn’t even have any pressing court cases tomorrow. Just an appearance in Bridgeview on a DUI case and a minor drug case in Markham. He pressed the intercom and spoke to his secretary.
“Tina, I’m going for the day.”
“Okay, Mr. Fox,” the box answered back. “Do you have anything else for me after I finish these briefs?”
The Heist Page 6