High Chicago

by Howard Shrier

  “You know how much that coffee cost a pound?” he moaned. “That was the Javanese monkey shit.”

  I picked the knife up off the floor and placed it on the desk in front of Eddie. I checked the load in the gun and handed it to Jenn. “If he tries anything,” I said, “shoot him in the balls.”

  “One at a time?” she asked. “Or both in one shot?”

  “Depends how little they are.”

  “One should do it.”

  “Give me your wallet,” I told the guy. He fumbled it quickly out of his back pocket. I shoved him back into Jenn’s chair and looked at his driver’s licence. His name was Sonny Tallarico. “Okay, Sonny,” I said. “Who sent you?”

  “Man, I can’t tell you that.”

  I said, “Let’s try that again,” and drove the palm of my hand into the bridge of his nose. Not quite hard enough to break it, but it drew both blood and tears. When he brought his left hand up over his nose, I grabbed his wrist and cranked his ring finger back and counter-clockwise.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” he screamed. “You broke my fucking finger! You broke my fucking finger, you motherfucking prick!”

  “I did not,” I said. “I dislocated it. And as soon as someone pops it back in, the pain will go away.”

  “Do it,” he panted.

  “Do what?”

  “Pop it!”

  “Me?”

  “Come on!”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Christ, man, they’ll fucking kill me.”

  “You think we won’t?”

  “You touched my tits,” Jenn said. “Without asking.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he moaned.

  I grabbed the ring finger on his other hand. “You want the two-for-one special?”

  “No!” he screamed. “Don’t! Don’t, please.”

  “We’re listening.”

  “Just a guy we know.”

  “What guy?

  “I can’t.”

  “Last chance, Sonny,” I said. “I do both hands, you’ll need someone else to hold your dick when you piss.”

  “Lenny! Lenny’s his name.”

  “Lenny what?”

  “Corazzo.”

  “And who is Lenny Corazzo?”

  “Just a guy we do stuff for.”

  “Yeah? What else did he ask you to do this week?”

  “This week? Nothing, man.”

  “He didn’t tell you to beat up a guy?”

  “What guy?”

  “A blond guy. Martin Glenn.”

  “No,” he panted. “No blond guys.”

  I started to bend his finger back but he just closed his eyes in anticipation of the pain. I had to believe he was telling the truth. I let go of it. Jenn looked disappointed.

  “Please,” he said. “Put my finger back.” His injured hand was trembling like a morning drinker’s; he had to clutch it in his good hand to make it stop.

  “One more thing.”

  “Come on, man. You promised.”

  “This isn’t Boy Scouts, Sonny. What’s your partner’s name?”

  “My partner—”

  “The guy with the gun. The one whose arm I broke.”

  “Oliviero,” he groaned. “Sal Oliviero. Sally O he goes by.”

  He’d volunteered something. It told me he wasn’t holding back.

  “What do they call you?” I asked.

  He looked down.

  “I’ll find out anyway. Don’t prolong this.”

  “Sonny the Gun,” he said.

  Jenn hooted. The best revenge.

  “All right,” I said. “Stay still.” I took hold of his shaking hand and told him to look away.

  “Away where?”

  “Anywhere but your finger, Einstein.”

  He looked down at the ground, then closed his eyes and sucked in his breath. I grasped the injured finger. Fixing a dislocated finger is not as easy as it looks in televised sports, where they yank it, tape it and send the guy back in. You have to bend the finger backwards, like you did in hurting it, grip it from behind and push the base forward. In lay terms, it hurts like fucking hell. I told Sonny to count to three and at two and a half I put his finger back into place. His eyes went wide and a guttural sound escaped his clamped jaws. Pain ran through his body like a tremor.

  I took all the cash out of his wallet and handed it back to him.

  “You’re taking my money too?” he whined. “After what you did?”

  “For the coffee stains,” I said. I told him to stay seated and used a digital Nikon to take his picture, then told him he could go. “Ice your finger and take a few Tylenol,” I said.

  “Fuck you,” he mumbled.

  “I could just as easily have done your thumb,” I said. “Then you’d need a surgeon.”

  “Fuck you again.”

  Some people. You just can’t please them.

  Once he was out the door, Eddie said, “Things were a lot quieter when there was a photographer here.”

  I said, “Who’s the hero now?”

  Jenn came over and put her arms around Eddie. He was a foot shorter than she was and his head nestled nicely against her breasts. She patted his back and held him there.

  “Jenn?” he said.

  “Yes, Eddie?”

  “You going to shoot me for this?”

  “No, Eddie.”

  “Not that it matters,” he beamed.

  CHAPTER 19

  The lunch trade at Giulio’s had ended and the restaurant was closed as the staff prepared for dinner. As I sat in Dante Ryan’s small office, the smell of tomato sauce, garlic, frying onions, simmering broth and sizzling meat filled the air. I had never gotten around to the lunch I’d brought back to the office and regretted it now as the fragrant smells had me all but salivating.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let me just double-click … here we go.” Up came a photo I had emailed him of an unsmiling Sonny “the Gun” Tallarico. “He said he worked for Lenny Corazzo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t tell you who he is?”

  “No.”

  “I’d have gotten it out of him, you know.”

  “Even if he didn’t know it?”

  “Even if. And the other guy was Sal Oliviero.”

  “That’s what Sonny called him.”

  He stared at the photo a little longer then shook his head. “Let me make a call,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  He looked at me.

  “What?”

  “I can’t make it with you sitting here.”

  “Oh.”

  “Take a seat outside a minute. You want a plate of something? Mimi can probably scare up some cannelloni or something.”

  “I could manage cannelloni.” Manage it? I’d eat anything put in front of me and the plate it came on.

  “Mimi?” Ryan called.

  An attractive, dark-eyed, young woman poked her head in the doorway. “You bellowed?”

  “Mimi, darling, fix my friend Jonah up with some cannelloni before he drools on my computer. Spinach and ground veal okay with you?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Ten minutes later, Mimi brought me a plate with four steaming pasta rolls smothered in a rich tomato sauce. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.

  “A glass of water would be fine.”

  “Sparkling or plain?”

  “Sparkling, thanks.”

  “Perrier or San Pellegrino?”

  “Whatever’s open.”

  “Natural or flavoured?”

  “You’re killing me, Mimi.”

  “It’s just you’re a friend of the owner’s,” she said. “He said to treat you real good.”

  “Plain San Pellegrino is fine.”

  By the time she returned with my drink, two of the cannelloni were history. The other two had joined them by the time Ryan summoned me back into his office.

  “Close the door,” he said.

  I did.

  “You piss s
omeone off in construction lately?” he asked.

  “Entirely possible.”

  “Lenny Corazzo is a son-in-law to a guy named Mike Izzo.”

  “As in Izzo Construction?” The trucks working the site at the Birkshire Harbourview had all been emblazoned with his orange and black logo.

  Ryan nodded.

  I couldn’t believe it. Rob Cantor had sicced goons on us. And if he was capable of that, maybe the horrible thought that had been crowding my mind—that a man could kill his own daughter to protect his business—was also true.

  “Listen, Jonah,” Ryan said. “Everything that went down last summer, everything you did for me, you remember what I told you? I said I owed you and you could call on me for anything, anytime. You remember that?”

  “I do.”

  “Now construction, as you may know, is a rotten fucking business. Mobbed up, I mean. Doesn’t matter where you’re talking—here, New York, Chicago—any big city, it’s the same. Every truck that rolls, every load of soil dumped, every ton of concrete poured, there’s a tax. Sometimes ten per cent of the total cost. The Gambinos, the Bonannos, all the big crews and their affiliates, they’ve been mixed up in it since forever. So if Mike Izzo doesn’t like you, don’t think he’ll stop with those two low-lifes. What I’m saying, I guess, is that even though I’m technically retired from the life …”

  “Stay retired,” I said. “You worked hard to get out, I don’t want you going back in on my account.”

  “I could make a call or two. Find out how big a hard-on Mike has for you.”

  “All right. And maybe one other thing.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You may want to rephrase that.” I took out the gun that Sal Oliviero had dropped in the office. “Can you get rid of this for me?”

  He examined it closely. “You kidding? A Beretta 92FS? That’s one fine pistol, man, replaced a lot of revolvers on a lot of police forces. The army didn’t like them ’cause they sometimes broke down under extreme conditions, but for the streets of Toronto they’re just fine. This one is already broken in but not abused. The guy you took it off will be kicking himself.”

  “That’s fine. I only got to kick him once.”

  “You should keep this, you know.”

  “I already have one I never carry.”

  “The Cougar I gave you?”

  “Don’t give me that look.”

  He hefted the pistol, turning it back and forth, letting light play off its chrome finish.

  “You sure you don’t want it?” he said. “One at home, one at work kind of thing?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He took a ring of keys off his desktop and opened a drawer, from which he extracted a grey metal strongbox. A second, smaller key opened this. He took out an envelope full of hundred-dollar bills, counted off five and offered them to me.

  “That seem fair? Brand new, it retails about six bills in the States.”

  “You’re the expert,” I said, taking the bills. Found money for World Repairs.

  “Doesn’t make sense to me, giving up a fine weapon like this,” he said. “Why don’t you give it to your partner?”

  “We’ve managed without them so far.”

  “Managed,”he said. “The woods are full of people who manage. Most of them in shallow graves.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Will Sterling’s place was the main floor of a small semi at the southern end of Markham Street in the Portuguese enclave known as Little Azores. A realtor might have tried to get away with calling it South Annex but only someone dim enough to believe a realtor would have fallen for it. The house was more than tired-looking; it was spent. The grey porch sagged like an old couch and groaned under my feet as I stepped up to the door. The front eavestrough hung like a broken limb that hadn’t been set. Recycling bins overflowed with pizza boxes and old NOW magazines and empty two-litre pop bottles. The sharp stink of cat spray filled the air.

  The doorbell was taped over with a note that said Knock Loud. I did. First with my knuckles, then with my car keys.

  No one answered. I checked my watch. It was five-thirty. Will had said he’d be home by four—five at the latest. I used my cell to call his number but it went straight to voice mail. I peered through the front windows and saw lights on and a TV flickering in one corner. There were textbooks open on a coffee table facing the TV, with a pen and highlighter next to them.

  I walked down the drive between the house and its neighbour to a side door that I figured would lead up to the kitchen and down to the basement. I knocked several times; no one answered there either. That left the back door. I walked through an unkempt yard, the grass long and matted and covered by rotting leaves. A small concrete patio was breaking up, having heaved through many a frost and thaw since it was first laid. I climbed three steps to a wooden porch that held a barbecue pitted with rust and peered through the kitchen door. All the lights were on. The counters were covered with fast-food wrappers and plates caked with old food. The sink was piled high with glasses. I could see two slices of bread in a toaster and a peanut butter jar next to it, its lid off, a knife planted in it like a flag.

  Someone was home. They just weren’t answering.

  Had Will changed his mind about talking to me? Or had someone changed it for him?

  I tried the kitchen door. It was locked but didn’t feel too sturdy. What the hell: I’d already broken into Rob Cantor’s house—might as well make it a double-header. I picked up a piece of broken patio stone and smashed a pane in the kitchen door. I reached in carefully and felt for the lock.

  Damn it. A deadbolt that could be opened only by a key. I felt around the door jamb around eye level. Sometimes people left a key there on a nail in case they had to get out fast. Nothing. I took a step back: in for a penny, in for a pound. I tensed my core muscles and kicked the door handle. It broke away from the strike plate and swung open. I moved into the kitchen and closed the door behind me.

  “Will?”

  No answer.

  There was no one in the kitchen. No one in the dining room, which had been turned into a makeshift bedroom. No one in the front room where the TV was tuned to Much Music. A video by Arcade Fire was playing with the sound off. There was no one in the bathroom.

  That left one more room on the ground floor, a bedroom at the back next to the kitchen. I eased the door open and found Will Sterling at the foot of his bed with a pillow over his face. The pillow was stained with blood. At the centre of the bloodstain was a black hole. Bloody feathers fanned out around his head like a headdress.

  I felt his neck. It was cold but not icy and moved easily enough. Rigor mortis had not yet set in. He’d been dead less than an hour or two. I looked at his body, a cold black rage building inside me. Three dead now. Three obstacles removed. I wanted to go back out the rear of Will’s house, race down to Rob Cantor’s plush office, pull him out of his padded leather chair and dangle him out a window over Queen Street.

  All the drawers had been pulled out of Will’s dresser, all his clothes thrown out of his closet and his school papers strewn everywhere. If there was anything to find, whoever had killed him had probably found it. I prowled around anyway, without knowing what I was looking for. I was about to leave when I noticed the white stains on his pant legs: this morning, I had figured they were paint or plaster, but there was no sign that any work was being done in the flat. I looked closer.

  It was bird shit. Gobs of it, with feathers stuck to it—feathers that didn’t match the ones from the pillow that had been put over his face.

  I backed out of the room to the kitchen, where I used Will’s phone to call Katherine Hollinger’s office.

  “Jonah,” she said, “I keep telling you I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

  “This isn’t personal,” I said.

  “What then?”

  “Business.”

  “About Glenn?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’ll have to wait,” she said. “I’
ve got a murder to clear.”

  “Got time for one more?”

  CHAPTER 21

  She came without McDonough, as I’d asked. Instead, she was accompanied by two other detectives, Graham Neely and Todd Gavin, who’d been assigned the case. I walked her through the flat, showing her everything I’d done, every item and surface I’d touched, as the detectives and crime scene officers examined Will Sterling’s body and set up their equipment.

  “You wanted proof that Martin Glenn’s murder was tied into the Harbourview project?” I said. “This is it.”

  “How?”

  “Will Sterling knew something about the project that was going to stop it cold.”

  “You don’t know that for a fact.”

  “He knew Maya Cantor. She was trying to help him. I think they found out something they weren’t supposed to know.”

  “You think.”

  “Will said this morning it had something to do with PCBs.”

  “But he didn’t tell you what exactly.”

  “Because they killed him first.”

  “They who, Jonah?”

  “How about Mike Izzo?”

  “Who is …”

  “He owns Izzo Construction. They’re building the Harbourview condos.”

  “What connects him to this?”

  I gave her an abbreviated version of what happened when the two goons accosted Jenn and me in our office.

  “You don’t have any proof that Izzo sent them.”

  “They were working for Lenny Corazzo and he’s Izzo’s son-in-law.”

  “I work in the real world, Jonah. You think I can bring in someone like Izzo for questioning or get a search warrant based on that? You should have called us when you had Tallarico in your office.”

  “He told me everything he knew. And I have his address.”

  She copied it into her notebook then flipped it closed. “All right,” she said. “We’ll bring him in for questioning. See if he has an alibi for Glenn’s murder. Now let us do our work here. If there’s a connection between these two killings, we’ll find it.”

  “Three killings,” I said.

  “Maya Cantor’s death was ruled a—”

  “I know damn well what it was ruled.”

  One of the crime scene techs lowered his camera and looked at Hollinger. She grabbed my elbow and steered me into the kitchen. “Listen,” she said in a low voice. “I value your opinions, I do. I respect your judgment. But don’t raise your voice or second-guess me in front of my team. I’m a Homicide detective, Jonah. I have to let the facts speak for themselves. Facts, not guesswork or theories. The most the coroner did was concede Maya could have been—could have been—pushed. Not that she was, not even that it was likely. We are actively investigating the links between Glenn and his work for Cantor Development. We’re looking into his bank records, his phone calls, his email. If there’s a connection to Maya, we’ll find it. And we’ll do the same thing here. If Will Sterling was killed because of something he knew, we will find evidence of it. Evidence, Jonah.”