by Tod Goldberg
Picone and his wife rented a redbrick house all the way out in Evanston. It was the kind of neighborhood where everyone drove an Audi or BMW, and the only American car on the block belonged to the nanny, so David had to keep stealing nicer rides than he preferred, just so he wouldn’t be made. Picone spent his days either sitting around the house in his underwear, working on a laptop, or making drops at the Field Museum, or the sprawling Hilton on Michigan Avenue, Gene’s & Jude’s in River Grove, Buckingham Fountain, out in front of Wrigley Field, wherever there were a lot of people. His big spy move was to have his buyer tape an envelope stuffed with cash on the underside of a bus stop bench. If everything was in order, Picone would leave a duffel bag of pills in a bush or garbage can. If the envelope wasn’t there, or the money was short, he’d just keep moving, no deal, no problem, no one sticking guns in anyone’s face, and he could go see a dinosaur or get a red hot and be on his way. He didn’t even carry a gun.
Still, David couldn’t very well shoot Picone in front of Wrigley Field. He also couldn’t walk into Picone’s house and put one in his head while he slept—he could, it just wasn’t prudent. A murdered Canadian citizen in a solid upper-middle-class suburb was the kind of thing that ended up on the news. That wasn’t going to work. Plus, he wasn’t real keen on killing Picone’s wife.
He needed a work-around. So, he did the only thing that seemed sensible. He called the cops.
On Saturdays, Picone did a big drop on Navy Pier, usually in front of the Children’s Museum. He’d park blocks away and drag a suitcase behind him, pretend to take photos, talk on his cell phone, look frustrated, sometimes stop and ask directions. It was a whole bit. If he hadn’t been so predictable, it would have been a decent cover. When David picked him from the crowd, he was walking along the promenade wearing a Hawaiian shirt, jeans, big sunglasses, a baseball cap. The only thing that stood out were the two Latin Kings with the neck tattoos waiting over by the bike racks. Seemed Frank Picone had at least one other tail.
A few yards behind Picone, an old man pushed himself along in a walker.
Perfect.
David called 911. “There’s a guy in a walker out front of the Children’s Museum flashing his dick at the kids,” he said, then he hung up, ditched the phone in a planter, and stepped behind Picone, kept pace with him for a few minutes, until the Navy Pier security and cops started to stream out of every corner. Picone tensed up, and David put a hand on his back, pulled him close.
“You’ve been made,” David whispered. “Walk back to your car.” Picone nodded once, kept moving toward the museum for a few more seconds—there was a science fair going on, kids and parents and cotton candy and clowns and a bunch of rent-a-cops simultaneously putting walkie-talkies to their ears—then turned heel, David now a step back.
“Who the fuck are you?” Picone asked, trying to sound hard, not that it was working. They’d made it to Gateway Park, Picone still dragging his suitcase full of oxy.
“Ronnie Cupertine would like to have a conversation,” David said.
“I don’t know anyone named Ronnie Cupertine,” Picone said.
“He’s interested in doing business with you,” David said.
“I’m not a decision maker.”
“You are now,” David said.
Picone brightened, hazarded a glance toward David. “He thinks so?”
“Yeah,” David said, “you’re the guy he’s looking for.”
When they got to Picone’s car—a black 5 Series BMW with tinted windows and Ontario plates—David directed him to drive to his warehouse. He’d never actually killed anyone in his warehouse space—he killed a local gangster, he just shot them in the street; if he was doing some contract shit, it was easier to just make it look like a robbery gone wrong and do it at a victim’s house or job, preferably the job, since no one brought their kids or pets to work—but this called for special circumstances. When they walked inside, before Picone could say a word about the foundry or the metal press, David put one in the back of his head.
Then he got to work.
He called Air Canada using Picone’s cell phone and, using Picone’s Visa, booked Picone a ticket to Windsor, one-way, leaving that night out of Midway. He called Kirkpatrick’s Florist in Evanston, ordered two dozen red roses, and had them sent to Picone’s wife, along with a note that said he’d been called out of town. His wife was smart. She’d know that if he hadn’t called and just sent flowers, maybe he had a job to do and wouldn’t ask questions. Two dozen roses would make anyone happy for a few days. Maybe a week. Eventually she’d get antsy, but then she’d see the Visa bill, and that would keep her another week. Still, she wasn’t going to file a missing person’s report. Gone meant gone in this business. She’d know that. Besides, the guy’s name probably wasn’t even really Frank Picone.
Ronnie didn’t want any evidence of the guy’s existence, which meant no body, so David first cut him up, then used the metal press, then used the furnace, then used the foundry, but it was a terrible mess. The metal press had been an inspired idea, but it took him hours to clean, so long that he had to drive Picone’s car to a long-term parking lot, leave it, catch a bus, and come back to scrub even more. He was the fucking Rain Man. He didn’t do floors. It ended up taking him three full days with industrial cleaners, some selective melting, and then a meticulous black light check to even feel confident about it.
He didn’t have a secret place like that in Las Vegas, wasn’t even sure how to go about looking for one. There was nothing old in this town. Once something wasn’t useful anymore, they’d just implode it and start again, or do it like Fremont Street and throw a million lights on it and call it an “Experience” and give everyone a souvenir football filled with beer. Besides, he was a respected member of the community now, or would be beginning on Monday; he even had a set of keys to the temple, and that meant he needed to conduct himself a bit differently. He couldn’t exactly rent a murder shop.
That meant trusting Bennie.
Slim Joe finally walked out of Ibiza Tan five minutes later—he’d gone in for a full thirty-minute bake—his cell phone already up on his ear, like the idiot didn’t have enough radiation coursing through his veins. It was only ten in the morning, and David couldn’t imagine anyone Slim Joe knew was actually awake yet. No one would miss Slim Joe for at least another ten, fifteen hours, and even then, no one who might miss him would be in the business of contacting the police. His own mother had just seen him, so even she wouldn’t notice his absence for a few days. And maybe by then she’d be dead, too, though David was hoping to avoid that.
David watched Slim Joe get into his car—a black Mustang with a rear spoiler you could land a plane on—and tried to figure out how Bennie came to associate himself with such an obvious liability, cousin or not, particularly since the first thing Joe did when he got in his car was roll down the windows and begin bumping rap music. That he was still pretending to talk on his cell phone at the same time filled David with such an uncommon disdain that he nearly shot him right then.
Instead, he got out of the piece of shit Buick Bennie had secured for him, double-checked to make sure there weren’t any cops lingering around—not that David believed the Summerhill Plaza was a hotbed of criminal activity, though there was a Gold’s Gym in the corner of the center that was filled with guys who must have thought they looked pretty tough hanging out in front of the elliptical machines—and headed over to the Mustang and got in. Slim Joe recoiled immediately and practically jumped out the window. David thought he even heard Joe scream a little, but he couldn’t be sure with the bass creating sonic booms every other second. David tried to turn the volume down, but Slim Joe’s stereo had more lights and buttons on it than a fucking spaceship, so David just reached over and yanked the keys from the Mustang’s ignition.
“That’s better,” David said.
“Fucking Christ,” Slim Joe said. “You scared the shit out of me, dog.”
“What’s that smell?” David s
aid.
“What?”
“There’s a smell in here,” David said. “Like fruit mixed with grass and piss.”
“That’s my bronzer,” Slim Joe said.
“What’s that?”
“Makes my tan stick,” he said. “Dog, you scared the shit out of me. I could’ve put a cap in you.”
Slim Joe was wearing his usual outfit—a wifebeater, Nike sweatpants, white Pumas, a watch the size of a hubcap. Not much room to keep a gun, not that there was any need to bring a gun with you to a tanning salon. Bullets and intense heat don’t usually have a good, safe relationship. Not even Slim Joe was that dumb. Maybe he kept a gun in the glove box.
“This bronzer, what does it run you?”
“I dunno, fifteen bucks. Whatever, man. No disrespect, but what the fuck are you doing here?”
No disrespect. Two words David had grown to hate. Someone said no disrespect, it immediately meant they were about to disrespect you. The Jews, they had it right: They basically told the Palestinians they could either have a piece of crap land or they could fuck off. Being polite got you exterminated. They killed first now.
“Maybe I’ve been thinking about getting a tan,” David said. “It’s the one thing I haven’t really addressed since I got into town. You think I need a tan?”
“Naw, dog, you look good.” Slim Joe gazed up into the rearview mirror and then turned around to look at the parking lot. “You drive here? I don’t see your ride.”
David could see that Slim Joe was agitated, which was good. He wanted him agitated. When you’re off-balance, you’re not as prone to seeing the obvious things. Better to keep someone engaged.
David put Joe’s keys back into the ignition but didn’t turn the car on. “We need to have a conversation. You willing to have a conversation with me?”
“You know I’m down for whatever.”
“Then let’s go for a ride,” David said.
“We can’t do this at the crib?”
“House is bugged,” David said. “What I want to talk about wouldn’t include Bennie. Just be something you and I get some skin on.”
“Oh, shit,” Slim Joe said, though it wasn’t clear to David if he was happy or frightened by this prospect. “How long?”
“How long have I been there?”
“Oh, shit,” Slim Joe said again. “All the rooms?”
“That’s my guess,” David said.
“You think Bennie listens to everything?”
“He’s your cousin,” David said. “I barely know the man.”
“Oh, shit,” Slim Joe repeated.
“You get it now?”
Slim Joe didn’t say another word. He pulled out of the shopping center, and David told him to head toward the temple. Slim Joe kept stealing glances at his cell phone while he drove.
David picked up the phone and examined it. As expected, Slim Joe hadn’t made or received a call since the previous night. David wasn’t sure when it became cool to appear to be talking to someone. He’d read something the night before that stuck with him: Reason is a small word, but a most perfect thing. Some old Greek Jew said it when he was talking about being grateful for the natural powers men possess—life, death, soul, imagination, all that. None of these Jews ever talked about trying to be cool, or trying to impress anyone. They never got down and demanded respect, or complained about being disrespected. It was always about being aware that your deeds were your legacy and how you were viewed wasn’t based on something as illusory as respect. Content was the thing.
It was a point that didn’t exactly sit well with David. Not that he didn’t believe it, only that he hoped it wasn’t true for everyone. Because if so, he was fucked.
As it related to someone like Slim Joe, however, it seemed apt: What the fuck was he grateful for, really? All he wanted was for people to stare at him, maybe fear him. Normally, David tried not to think about the people he was about to kill. Once they became people, you could sort of imagine them being someone’s husband, someone’s brother, someone’s son, and then you started to imagine them as babies, and his job became harder. Usually, David tried to depersonalize the experience as much as possible. The world was usually a better place for his work. Even when he did contract work, he tended to kill bad guys as much as possible, not just cheating spouses, though he’d done that on occasion, too, like when Jennifer was pregnant and they didn’t know how they’d afford all the prenatal care.
David opened up the Mustang’s glove box, and, sure enough, there was a TEC-9. Of all the guns to keep in your car, the TEC-9 was among the worst, since they tended to jam more often than shoot. TEC-9s looked cool, though, which David assumed was enough for Slim Joe to choose it over the arsenal of practical assault weapons inside the house. David pulled out the gun and put it on his lap, then tossed Slim Joe’s phone into the glove box and closed it.
“Why’d you do that?” Slim Joe finally asked.
“You expecting a call?”
“Nah, man, I’m just freaked out,” he said. “You just roll up on me in a parking lot and tell me to drive, man, I’m a little on edge about that shit, you feel me? Now you got my TEC on your lap.”
“I feel you,” David said, the words sounding absurd coming out of his mouth, and David made a note to himself never to put those three words together again.
“Are you here to kill me?” Slim Joe said. Maybe he wasn’t so fucking stupid.
“Suppose I am,” David said. “There something you’d want to admit to, so maybe I don’t have to torture you first?”
“I’d want you to know,” Slim Joe said, “whatever beef I got with Bennie, that’s got nothing to do with you. That’s family shit, you feel me? Me and you, I feel like, you know, we bonded and shit while you were getting your face put back together.”
“Sure,” David said. He turned the TEC-9 over in his lap, inspected the clip. It had a full thirty-two rounds. That solved a problem. The gun was fairly light—two, maybe three pounds—which meant you really had to use some force if you wanted to beat someone with it, but it could be done. Metal versus flesh tended to have predictable results.
“So we’re straight, right?”
“Right,” David said.
“That’s a relief, dog,” he said.
“You tell anyone about me?”
Slim Joe swallowed. It looked like he was having some difficulty with general body functions, particularly now that David could see bulbs of sweat dotting his forehead. “Nah,” he said. “Bennie said keep your name out my mouth, so that’s what I’ve done.”
“So, your friends ask you where you’ve been living these last few months, what do you say?”
“Just that Bennie got me up in a big-ass crib for doing him a favor,” Slim Joe said.
“Rabbi Gottlieb?”
“Yeah,” he said, excited now, as if David wasn’t sitting there playing with his TEC-9. “You heard about that? Cuz Bennie said I couldn’t say shit about that.”
“It’s all right,” David said, the dumb motherfucker practically jumping out of his seat to tell the story. “How’d that go down?”
“Basically? I tied him up and forced about twenty shots of Jack down his throat, right? Make it look like he was drunk if they ever find his body, cuz Bennie, he was like, don’t beat him or nothing, but then the rabbi, he got mouthy on me so I ended up breaking some of his fingers and toes. I thought that shit was gonna come back on me, but then the boat motor pretty much ate him up, so it worked out fine.”
“Where was this?”
“The crib,” he said. “In the weight room. I put him right up against the mirror so he could see. I thought that was pretty hardcore, some Reservoir Dogs shit.” Slim Joe was giddy now.
David had always treated killing people as something you did with as little fanfare as possible. He’d done some torturing when he was younger, even broke the kneecap of a guy once. Frank Moti, an alderman in the First Ward, who Ronnie said had screwed him out of money on a zoning deal. You s
mack someone in the kneecap a few times with a ball-peen hammer, they throw up from the pain, there’s a mess everywhere, they can’t speak, they can’t walk, and then you try to send them to the bank to get your money and they crumble on the street, or someone sees them with their bones sticking out of their pants and they call the cops. Moti didn’t do that, instead he had a stroke right there in Ronnie’s basement, so Fat Monte ended up dumping him a block from a hospital. Guy ended up serving another dozen years at city hall with a limp and a frozen eye. Moti never said a word, and Ronnie still didn’t get his money. What was the use?
If the Family sent him out to kill someone, it was usually to make sure a secret remained a secret. Or maybe it was to keep some larger peace, or, and this wasn’t as frequent as it used to be, to exact revenge. That was street-gang shit, and it only led to bigger problems. That David himself was still alive, and not killed to keep a larger peace, in this case with the feds, weighed on him somewhat. He knew it meant either Chema or Fat Monte’s cousin Neal or, more likely, both, were dead because of it.
Though, it occurred to David that just having this conversation with Slim Joe was a kind of torture, prolonging the inevitable and all, but in this case David needed to know certain things.
“So you killed him in the house?”
“Naw, I just beat him there,” Slim Joe said. “Drowned him in Lake Mead and then dumped him, let the boat roll up on him.” David could hear the excitement in his voice, the memory of killing Rabbi Gottlieb firing him up. “So many bodies in there, it’s amazing anyone found him. That’s like our fucking cornfields, on the real.”
“Why’d they have you do him?”
“Bennie didn’t tell me that,” Slim Joe said.
“You didn’t beat it out of him?”