7 Triple Shot

by Sandra Balzo

  I glanced over at Luc and Tien. Luc was looking straight ahead, a tear sliding down his cheek but his jaw clenched, I assumed from Chitown’s smarmy ambiguity about Father Romano’s possible involvement on the Mafia’s side of the raid. Tien squeezed her father’s hand.

  ‘When we come back live again, we’ll bring you into the infamous boardroom where the actual carnage took place.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ Sarah said, after Doty signaled we were in commercial. ‘Carnage.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ I parroted, standing up a bit stiffly. ‘We get to move. C’mon.’

  The next segment took place, as promised, in the boardroom. There was just enough space for us, the unwashed audience, to stand out of camera range. Chitown’s on-camera narrative seemed mostly a rehash of what already had been said, the only development vaguely interesting being Chitown’s revelation of that secret panel in the back of the closet.

  Since I already knew about it, though, yesteryear’s news was a bit of a snooze.

  Besides, I was still smarting from the fact there’d been no mention of Uncommon Grounds during the footage they’d taped at the depot. ‘Deirdre and Ward want you to get as much product-placement value as possible.’ My ass.

  Sarah, though, seemed to have perked up by the time we went to another commercial break. ‘A secret door. Maybe it’s to the tunnel running under the tracks.’

  ‘Nah,’ I said. ‘No such luck. It leads to the slaughterhouse. They would sneak out through there and then cross the tracks to hang out in our secret room until the train came.’

  ‘That’s a little low-tech. How do you know?’

  ‘Elaine showed Tien and me this morning.’

  Doty was doing another countdown.

  Sarah groaned. ‘So . . . no tunnel?’

  I shook my head.

  ###

  ‘Move quickly, please.’ Deirdre Doty again – or maybe still: I was becoming numbed to the passage of time – herded us into the slaughterhouse. We were noticeably losing discipline as a flock in the absence of a Border collie nipping at our heels.

  I might be a partial owner, according to Sarah, but I did not want to go into the slaughterhouse.

  Especially now, when the place appeared to be lit up like a blood-soaked Christmas tree. God knows, I’d by then seen plenty of blood and plenty of bodies, but there was something just so wrong about a place . . . dedicated to killing.

  ‘This is a House of Execution, partner,’ I said to Sarah, ‘only its victims were one-hundred-percent innocent. And with such gentle, trusting eyes.’ I sniffled.

  Sarah smacked her lips. ‘And such nice rib-eyes, especially on the grill over mesquite-flavored briquettes, with—’

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ I said, hanging back.

  ‘Not when you’re blocking the door,’ Sarah said, putting both palms on my back and shoving.

  I stumbled through, nearly running into a concrete-block pillar inside the door. I caught myself just in time, jamming my wrist against the concrete. Reflexively, I pulled back, imagining stickiness in what was likely a blood splatter more than thirty years old and drier than dust.

  Stepping around the pillar, we the audience found ourselves in a large room with walls of concrete block, like the pillar. Nearly every inch of the expansive floor was stained varying shades of dark brown. There were huge drains beneath our feet, the nearest beginning about a shoe-length away from me. A faded, cracked hose was coiled in one corner. In another, a wooden column stood, and hanging on that . . .

  ‘Oh, my God,’ I said, putting the back of my hand up to my mouth. ‘Meat hooks?’

  ‘What in the world is wrong?’ Sarah said. ‘It’s not like you don’t enjoy a nice burger.’

  ‘Not anymore,’ I said. Our group was being gathered into one area, all of us standing, and most with arms folded across our chests. Primordial instinct, Eric would say. Assuming a defensive posture for protection against the . . . unknown.

  ‘All right, people. Quiet, please,’ Deirdre Doty ordered again, though no one was whispering, much less speaking aloud. ‘We’re live in five, four . . .’

  ‘And now we’ve reached our . . . final destination,’ Ward Chitown intoned. ‘The slaughterhouse, next door to the restaurant. But more than mere cattle and veal calves died here. My father believed that known Mafia hitmen also brought their . . . human victims to this killing floor.

  ‘Imagine: it would have been so easy.’ His hand swept toward the hose. ‘A pressurized water source to wash down the blood, with drains in the floor to carry away the gruesome cocktail into city sewers. Then, spread a little bleach and –’ he shrugged – ‘would anyone even know the difference?

  ‘This was also where Antonio Solari ran, bleeding from gunshot wounds and desperately clutching a grocery bag that held the cash skimmed from the casinos. Everyone, including my own father, believed he had escaped with more than a million dollars. The only winner in a losing game.’

  Chitown approached the camera slowly, shaking his index finger even more so, like a metronome. ‘Because make no mistake about it. No one really won that day. Three wives buried their FBI-agent husbands and seven children grew up without their FBI fathers.’

  I saw Tien put an arm around Luc and lay her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Even Antonio Solari was not a winner, eventually. Nor even a survivor. Now, nearly forty years later, I’m here to tell you that Solari himself died that day. His body was found near the Illinois state line, not identified until just recently, thanks to DNA testing. Police photographs of the then John Doe show that he was fully clothed and had a gunshot wound to the leg, one that caused Solari to bleed out before he could make it from the train station in Kenosha, Wisconsin, to his childhood home nearby.’

  Chitown sighed deeply, closing his eyes. ‘But . . . whatever happened to the money?’

  Reluctantly, I had to admit I was riveted by his performance. I wanted to scream, ‘Yeah, where is it?’

  ‘Yeah, where is it?’ Sarah yelled for both of us.

  My evil twin – let her take the heat. But this time, neither Deirdre nor Kate displayed the ‘shush’ signal.

  ‘I’ll tell you where it is,’ Chitown said, nodding affably at the outburst. ‘And, I will tell you . . . now.’

  ‘What do you bet we go to a commercial?’ Sarah whispered to me.

  But Chitown was walking toward us. He knelt by the drain at the base of the pillar I’d barged into and he held out his palm, upward and open. Like a surgical nurse, Deirdre Doty slapped a yellow-handled screwdriver into it.

  ‘Watch carefully,’ Chitown called and we all shuffled forward. The hell with Deirdre and her ‘Stay out of the shot’ or ‘Keep quiet’. We wanted to see.

  And see we did.

  Chitown used the screwdriver to pry up an edge of the drain grate. Not quite able to keep the filthy iron away from his designer suit, he rolled the grate aside. Then, barehanded, Chitown reached down into the drain, eventually having to bellyflop onto the equally filthy floor, his arm disappearing to the shoulder, his facial features twisting grotesquely from the strain of . . .

  ‘No good. Dammit!’ He pounded his other fist against the floor, still apparently unable to dip deeply enough. He again picked up the screwdriver, gripped it as an extension of his hand and plunged both back into the hole.

  Everybody – yes, including me – held our breath until . . . finally . . . an inch at a time, Ward Chitown’s arm began craning upward, ever upward. And, when that screwdriver finally reappeared, a worn, plastic grocery bag dangled precariously at its tip, corners of green currency poking out from a partial tear in the bag’s bottom.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Amazing,’ I said to Sarah, as Ward Chitown signed off and turned the money over to the two men in business suits I’d seen arriving earlier.

  Apparently, they were certified public accountants, now counting the loot instead of tallying votes for the Oscars.

  ‘What’s amazing? That Chitown didn’t com
e up empty ala Geraldo?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Ward knew the money was down there,’ Elaine Riordan said from beside us and nearly bursting with pent-up excitement. ‘He and Deirdre found it when they scouted the slaughterhouse on Monday, but told no one, not even me, until now.’

  The woman giggled and ran off.

  ‘Balls of steel.’ Sarah said.

  I looked at her.

  ‘I mean to leave the cash there for the better part of a week. What if one of our even more amateurish treasure hunters had found it?’

  ‘After all these years?’ I said. ‘Besides, our other amateurs were too busy digging holes in our lawn.’

  ‘True. I wonder if Chitown’d have been so sanguine about leaving it if he’d realized the bag was ripped and might be leaking c-notes.’

  I was watching the suits do their count. The bills looked damp and . . . oh, was that dark splotch another blood stain?

  Ugh. The ‘ambience’ was closing in on me, making my stomach turn queasy. ‘How about we go back into the Ristorante?’

  ‘Sure, but I can’t stay. I have to run home and change for the party.’

  ‘You’re dressing up?’ It was unusual to see Sarah in anything beyond her jackets and trousers. I’d seen her legs in a tennis skirt once, but that had been an aberration. And a little frightening.

  She nodded toward my sensible outfit. ‘You’re wearing that?’

  Might as well, given that Pavlik wouldn’t be there. But that was the fourteen-year-old talking again. ‘I have a change of clothes in the car. I’ll get dressed in the restaurant ladies’ room and meet you at Sapphire.’

  I followed Sarah out of the closet and into the boardroom. ‘And, given that –’ I poked my thumb toward the hubbub still going on around the money behind us – ‘I think it’s going to be quite the party.’

  The dining room of the restaurant was a hive of activity. Cables were being recoiled and cameras packed up now that the live production – at least at this location – had ended. But at the same time, the local news operations began making their way into the Ristorante.

  ‘The other stations must have been watching,’ I said, recognizing an on-air reporter with the Milwaukee CBS affiliate as he blasted by me. ‘Didn’t take them long to get here.’

  ‘Oh, they had their trucks lined up along the road right outside,’ Elaine Riordan said smugly. The woman seemed to be everywhere. Right now, she was lifting her dinosaur typewriter off the desk so workmen could move the old desk and dismantle the makeshift stage.

  ‘Most excitement Brookhills has seen in a while,’ Sarah said, raising her hand. ‘Catch you later.’

  As she left, I looked around. ‘Anything I can help you with, Elaine?’

  ‘Oh, that’s so nice of you, Maggy. You don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all. I need to change for the party, but I have my things with me and it’s probably going to be at least an hour before anyone gets over to Sapphire anyway.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Riordan strained to lovingly lower the Underwood onto the floor next to her leather handbag which probably weighed somewhere close to a side of beef.

  Which reminded me, unfortunately, of the slaughterhouse.

  As I swallowed back another wave of queasiness, Riordan straightened. ‘What an exciting night, Maggy. I’m so happy to be part of it.’

  ‘Well, happiness agrees with you.’ It was true. The woman was practically glowing.

  Now she blushed. ‘I have to tell you, I feel better right now than I have in weeks.’

  ‘Had you been ill?’ Or depressed, I was thinking. I gestured for her to join me in folding up the front row of chairs.

  ‘I really feared so,’ Riordan said, sitting down instead of helping. ‘My weight has dropped and I have the most horrible headaches sometimes.’

  MaryAnne Williams had mentioned the weight loss, though if I’d noticed at all – never a sure bet – I’d have attributed it to Barbies just being Barbies. Never thin enough or rich enough. ‘Have you been to a doctor?’

  ‘No.’ Another blush, but a different ‘shade’ than the happy one. ‘With the divorce and all, health insurance has been a problem.’

  ‘You know it’s possible that . . . I’m not saying your symptoms are psychosomatic, but I was quite depressed after my divorce.’

  ‘Really, Maggy?’ Riordan studied my face. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Hey, Elaine, we’re women. We’ve learned how to be good at hiding things and just soldiering on.’

  She was nodding. ‘You’re so right. And . . . well, I honestly hadn’t considered the possibility that depression might be the reason I was feeling so awful physically.’

  ‘But you just told me you’re better now?’

  ‘So much better,’ Riordan said, holding her hands palm-up. ‘It’s like a great weight has been lifted from these shoulders.’

  ‘Being active makes a huge difference,’ I agreed. ‘Throwing yourself into new projects. I mean, so long as you don’t do something stupid.’

  Like quitting your corporate PR job and opening a coffeehouse.

  ‘That’s exactly it, Maggy. These past couple of weeks, I have taken control of my life again. It’s made all the difference in the world.’

  'In the game,' as MaryAnne had put it.

  I patted Elaine on one now-lighter shoulder. ‘Being part of something unusual like this –’ I pointed to the knot of reporters gathered around Ward Chitown, now holding court just outside the board room – ‘has to be a real upper.’

  Hell, even I was stoked, despite having my red dress in the car but no Pavlik to see it.

  ‘Holding one’s head high and looking forward instead of backwards.’ Riordan rose. ‘I feel empowered, even reborn.’

  I laughed and stood, too. ‘We’d better stop there or we’ll break into a chorus of “I Am Woman”.’

  Riordan laughed as well, then retrieved her handbag. ‘God bless that Helen Reddy? She gave us an anthem for the ages.’

  ‘For all our ages. Can I at least give you a hand with that?’

  Riordan had the strap of her big purse resting in the saddle of her left shoulder, but each time she leaned down to pick up the typewriter, her bag slipped down as well, landing with an audible ‘clunk’ on top of the ancient Underwood. ‘I . . . just can’t seem . . .’

  I gently nudged Riordan aside and scooped up the typewriter. No mean feat, either. The thing had to weigh nearly fifty pounds. ‘Where to, Elaine?’ I asked, trying not to gasp or whimper.

  ‘To my car, if that’s not too far?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I lied.

  Riordan led our way out the front door of the restaurant. Street parking had been prohibited for the night – unless, of course, you were a broadcast media company with enough bucks to keep a driver behind the steering wheel so a given vehicle was never really ‘parked’.

  I followed her across Junction Road to a public lot used during the day by Kate McNamara’s newspaper, The Observer. Riordan’s little beige car was parked just an aisle away from my Escape. I’d drop off the typewriter, grab the bag with my dress and change in the restroom.

  Assuming I even made it to her car. Damn, but the Underwood was heavy. And awkward to carry. I shifted the thing, letting the bottom bite into other sections of my palms. So much better. And the temporary pain even made the persistent itching of my rash-covered hand recede from conscious sensation.

  Chitown should be the one with the itchy palm. He’d found the long-lost money, though the pursuit of that particular rainbow – leading to a resurrected television career – might prove more lucrative than the proverbial pot of gold itself. Good thing, because given the back taxes owed on the slaughterhouse, I wasn't sure Chitown would see a cent of the 'treasure' anyway.

  ‘Oh, Maggy. Thank you so much.’ Elaine was sniffling as she unlocked the trunk of her little car.

  ‘Happy to help. Are you sure you don’t have allergies?’ I asked, as I hefted the typewriter up and
over the lip of her trunk. ‘They can cause headaches, you know.’

  Riordan’s signature afghan was folded neatly in one corner of the trunk and as I settled the Underwood in, the luggage compartment was nearly full. Her big handbag – Kleenex box and all – would have to go into the cabin of the car itself. And, given the presumed weight of the leather tote, it probably should have an airbag of its own.

  ‘You’re a really good person, Maggy, and I’m not talking about just carrying the typewriter. I enjoyed our talk.’ She slung her handbag onto her left shoulder and hugged me in an awkward way, like she didn’t engage in the gesture very often.

  Holy shit, I thought. Maybe MaryAnne was right. I am a mensch.

  Nah.

  ‘You might want to put something around the typewriter to protect it,’ I said. ‘If an antique Underwood really is worth something, you wouldn’t want it getting bounced around.’

  I picked up the only other thing in her trunk – the afghan – and shook it out of the plastic bag it had been stowed in to check for ‘padding’ capacity. Happily, no ball of yarn fell out.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it’ll fine as is,’ Riordan said, reaching for her handiwork.

  She grabbed one edge and the thing stretched to its full length, displaying a roughly circular hole larger than I thought the loose crochet could account for.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ I said, fingering it delicately. ‘You have a tear here or maybe you just missed a stitch.’ Or three, given the size of the hole.

  I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together. In the illumination of the overhead street lights, I could see a trace of black and the acrylic yarn felt melted and crusted around the edges of the circle, like someone held a cigarette to it.

  ‘Maggy, thanks ever so much for your concern, but it’s truly nothing,’ Riordan said. ‘Just a burn. Once I wash the afghan and mend it you’ll barely notice.’

  I had my doubts, but that was the nice thing about synthetics. They do launder well. I let my end of her afghan go.