Murder in Chicago

by Dianne Harman

  “That, well, you can’t blame a woman.” She was crying by then. “I mean, look at you, Sab! How can I ever go out in public with you again?” She ran up the stairs toward him. “I’m so sorry, but I just… I just can’t get past your face the way it is now. I’ve been trying, but I can’t. I feel more like your mother than your wife and life partner.”

  All of Sab’s shame – about his inability to have children, about his face, about everything he was (he’d always been pushed around by his father and older brothers), came to the surface. He turned to the mirror hanging on the wall and pounded his fists into it, sending it crashing down onto the floor in a flurry of shards.

  “Sab, no!” Victoria shouted. “You’re scaring me!”

  Looking back on it, Sab almost wished he’d killed her that night and then gone after his cousin.

  Now, the two of them, Victoria and Dante, were living in Florida and she was pregnant with their second child. They’d wanted out of the mob completely. Sab thought of going to Florida to kill them, but since they were in another state and no longer had ties to the Mafia, he decided against it since he doubted he’d survive an intense investigation by the police.

  Sab had also started a new career, rising quickly to become a partner in a private investment brokerage firm. But that didn’t stop the immense rage from churning inside him, looking for someone, anyone, to blame for what had happened to him.

  CHAPTER 4

  Al and Red arrived in Chicago on a private plane, landing at a small airstrip just outside the city. Benny Amato, the very man who had told Al there was a hit out on him when they’d met in the Caymans, had a cab waiting for him on the airstrip. Al was thankful for that. The less he could be outside in the open, the better.

  He wanted to maintain his cover for as long as possible. In preparation, he’d grown a little more stubble than he usually wore, brought plenty of sunglasses with him, and ordered some new clothes on Amazon Prime that weren’t his style at all. Since he’d been in Washington, he’d become a fan of bright colors, but this time he’d gone for all black and gray, dull enough so that he’d blend into the crowd. Hopefully none of the mob would recognize him.

  He even watched the cab driver warily as he and Red got in, and drew his shades over his eyes. While he was sure that Benny had nothing to do with the hit out on him, he wondered who the cab was booked through. The Mafia managed to get their members into all sorts of disguises.

  He sent a text to Benny: This guy gonna’ blow me away, Benny? Who is he? Where’s he taking me?

  Benny shot back a reply quickly: Don’t let them make you paranoid, Al, or you’ll lose the war. This guy’s fine. Non-mob, just a regular guy. Fourth floor, second apartment on the left. 404.

  Fine, Al texted back.

  The further they drove into the city, the more nervous Al became. He wondered how he’d become trapped in this web. Well, he knew that very well. He’d seen a shady past catch up with ex-mob members more times than he could count. But the thing that burned him most was the fact that Cassie could now be in danger, too.

  He’d tried to dissuade her from coming to Chicago, but she was adamant. And, on reflection, he felt she might be slightly safer that way. Or would she? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t like the idea of her at home alone, with Mafia members maybe watching the house.

  Perhaps if they couldn’t get to him, they would… He couldn’t bear thinking about it, but, at the same time, being by his side, she was also in danger. He had all sorts of horrible visions of people kicking doors in, machine guns in hand, ready to blast Al and anyone who was with him, away.

  An immense sense of guilt had been twisting in his gut for a while. He’d felt a mild version of this symptom from the very beginning of his and Cassie’s relationship. The shadow of his past wouldn’t let him fully enjoy the present or their shared dreams for a bright future. On their wedding day, that knot of guilt had tightened a little more. And now? It was like someone had tied a rope around his insides, and was squeezing them tighter and tighter by the minute.

  That was why he was in Chicago. He was determined to find the potential killer, and the evidence. He wasn’t going to do it mob style. No. That time was over. Rather, he was going to hand over all the evidence to the police, and fight for the best police protection he could get. Perhaps he and Cassie would have to move to a remote South American village. But if that’s what it took to remain alive, then he’d do it in a heartbeat.

  Thinking about all this made the ride go faster, and before he knew it the driver pulled up outside a shiny apartment building that gleamed in the sun. They were in one of Chicago’s best districts, and the sidewalks were clean and wide. An extremely slim woman with a tiny dog on a leash and a designer handbag strutted by and walked into the building, giving Al all the information, he needed to know about the neighborhood.

  “I’ll git my bags,” he said to the driver, wanting to get away from him as quickly as possible. He put Red’s leash on, stepped out of the cab, and rushed to get his bags out of the trunk.

  When he arrived at the front door of the apartment building, the stout doorman warily looked him up and down. “And you are?” he asked, with a sneer on his face.

  Al realized he looked slightly dishevelled, but his worry made him short-tempered. “I don’t have time for this,” he said, looking up and down the street. He didn’t know whether to use Benny’s name or not, or how it had been booked. Anyone could have connections to the mob, and the less information he gave out, the better. “I have friends upstairs waiting for me.”

  “Is that so?” the doorman said. “Lift up your glasses. Let me look at you.”

  “What?” Al said.

  “You heard me, pal.”

  “You don’t know me. Don’t call me pal.”

  “Sir, don’t get aggressive,” the doorman said, despite the fact he’d been much ruder than Al had been. He backed up with an arm out, like Al was going to attack him. “Or I’ll have to call the police.”

  Al called Benny. It took a lot of effort not to curse. “Yer’ doorman don’t think I’m fancy enough for this buildin’.”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s an absolute clown,” Benny said. “Wait there.”

  With Red attached to his leash, Al strolled away from the building over to the edge of the street, and then walked back again, feeling nervous. A couple of minutes later, he leaned against the wall next to the entrance, his shades still resolutely down.

  “I’m going to have to ask you not to lean on that wall, sir,” the doorman said testily.

  It was too much for Al. “Sweet Mother of Mary, what in the devil is wrong with ya’?”

  “I’m going to call the police now.”

  “Don’t think so,” Benny said, coming out of the entrance door. “He’s with me. Now you listen, and you listen good. Don’t ever trouble this man again. Don’t talk to him, don’t even look at him. He’s a good friend of mine and a very important man. Do you understand?”

  The doorman crossed his arms and crinkled his mouth. “I’m just attempting to do my job, sir.”

  “Well, it was a terrible attempt,” Benny said, then cracked a smile. “Think you need to get yourself a woman, relax a bit. Or get rid of a stressful woman, as the case may be.”

  Al laughed and slapped Benny on the back as they made their way inside. “Great to see ya’, Benny.”

  “Likewise, Al,” Benny said, grabbing one of Al’s bags and leaning down to give Red a pat. “Wish it could be under better circumstances, but we already know all about this type of lifestyle.” He winked. “But I did hear that you had a great funeral.”

  They crossed the marble floor towards the sleek glass elevator, rolling Al’s suitcases behind them.

  “That I did,” Al said with a grin. “Tragic boat accident. Such a shame. Had a whole wonderful retirement aheada’ me.”

  As they got into the elevator, Al studied Benny’s body language carefully. He was almost 100% sure he could trust him, since Benny was the o
ne who had tipped him off. But they had certainly had their ups and downs over the years, and one tiny part of Al wondered if this wasn’t some elaborate trap and he was going upstairs to meet his death. It was in moments like these that he half-wished he still wore a bulletproof vest and a had a handgun in his waist.

  When they were in the apartment, which was beautiful and sleek, but didn’t have much of a view, being on the 4th floor, he had a much more pleasant surprise.

  “Joey! Little Fingers!” Al said. “The Gambinos!”

  Benny grinned. “A little surprise for you.”

  They were old friends from his Mafia days. Little Fingers was the son of Fingers, who recruited Al when he was a kid. Even though Little Fingers was now a grown man with a family of his own, the moniker, borne because of his exact likeness to his dad, had stuck.

  “Al!” Little Fingers said, giving him a firm handshake and then embracing him in a bear hug. Joey did the same, and Al felt tears springing up in his eyes. He’d felt so alone in the cab ride to the apartment, and now he was surrounded by his best friends in the world.

  “Ha-ha, he’s crying!” Little Fingers said affectionately, slapping Al on the back. “Now, we’ve got some of the best champagne to toast your arrival, so hurry up and get them bags put away. Is it okay if I pet your scary lookin’ dog?”

  “Yeah, if I say it’s okay.” He turned to Red and said, “It’s okay, Red. These are friends.”

  As if the big Doberman pinscher understood exactly what Al had said, he walked over to Little Fingers and stood in front of him while he bent down and petted Red.

  “Your bedroom’s over there,” Benny said, pointing to a door off the side of the living space.

  Al wheeled both his suitcases across the room, still feeling a little jumpy, which was unlike him. He half-expected a gunman to leap out of the closet as soon as he got in the room. Then he caught sight of his worried face in one of the mirrors and gave himself a little slap in the face. “Come on, Al, Man up,” he muttered to himself.

  Moments later he strode back into the living space. “Guys, that champagne better be the best money can buy! After all, I might jes’ get my head blown off in the next coupla’ weeks, right?!” He laughed heartily, and the others laughed along, too.

  “Nah,” Joey said. “Don’t even think that way.” He passed Al a glass of champagne, the foam overflowing.

  Al took it and drained it in one gulp. He held it out to Little Fingers who had the bottle. “Gimme’ another one.”

  “Woohoo,” Little Fingers said. “That’s the old Al I know.”

  Al was too full of wired energy to sit down. “Right, so any ideas on who’s gunnin’ fer me? I’m guessin’ it’s gotta be the ones behind this recent killin’ spree, endin’ up with Shirley Morris.”

  “Ain’t got a clue, Al,” Benny said. “List could be long as your arm.”

  “Yeah, figured as much,” Al said. “I never even met Shirley Morris. Nothin’ really springs to mind. Ya’ guys are gonna’ need to make some inquiries fer me.”

  “Of course,” Little Fingers and Joey both said. “Field’s wide open right now, though. Can’t even think of anyone who’d have it in for you and Shirley,” Joey said. “It might be a long-held grudge thing. Who knows?”

  “I’m thinkin’ we gotta’ narrow down the connection between Shirley, them two dead guys, and me,” Al said. “Ya’ know, work out who mighta’ had a grudge against me and them. The way I see it, that’s the only way we’re gonna’ find our killer.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Betty Traxel wasn’t a bit glamorous, and she could care less. In fact, she liked it that way. She didn’t like fancy clothes, makeup, purses, or salons. She thought those were all markers of inferior women with no backbone who only wanted to please men. Her long fuzzy black hair was always tied in a low ponytail, and she wore black velvet suits to work every day.

  But there was one thing Betty Traxel loved when it came to her appearance – gold. She had two gold front teeth and wore many gold necklaces, all at once. Her fingers were studded with thick gold rings. She preferred how men’s rings looked, and she wore a gold Rolex.

  The truth was, if someone looking like her turned up at her restaurant door, she’d never let them in. Unless they were willing to pay their way, of course. Her restaurant, Bella Rosa, was a playground for anyone who had enough money. She rented out the back room for thousands of dollars so people could play poker and have meetings about shady business deals. She always counted the heads that went in, and sometimes one was missing on the way back out.

  When anyone asked for the back door key that led to a dark secluded alleyway behind the restaurant, she knew very well what was going on. Body bags were involved. She charged an exorbitant fee for that kind of business and always gave a stern warning that nothing was to come back to her. “The last thing I need is having some pigs dressed in blue come in here and start sniffin’ around.” And they never did.

  It was a good thing, because she carried on a very successful cocaine trade, both in her restaurant and out of it. She sold cocaine by measures of ten kilograms at a time and no less. What anyone did with it after that was their business, but she knew that a lot of the powder and crack circulating in the streets and clubs of Chicago had passed through her hands.

  Her nickname was ‘The Cook,’ and many thought that was because she was the crack cocaine empress of Chicago. The name had stuck, but it had been over fifteen years since she’d cooked up a pot. The name was really about the restaurant which she had bought and furnished with money from her cocaine business.

  Betty rarely came out to the front of the restaurant. She wasn’t interested in the day-to-day logistics of running her restaurant. Instead, she sat in the back office, doing paperwork, and cutting deals for the drugs and the use of her back room. She kept a close eye on all the finances involved in running the restaurant and other businesses after a bad experience many years ago.

  When she found out that her accountant had run off with hundreds of thousands of dollars, she never trusted anyone else to keep track of her finances, afraid they’d dip their hand in the till, just like her accountant had done years ago.

  Accountants aren’t rich, she thought. They can’t see all these millions pouring into my account without getting a case of the green eye. Besides, she enjoyed it. She stayed holed up in the office eating a combination of M&Ms and fancy food from her restaurant, and drinking various combinations of Diet Coke and the finest liqueurs money could buy. She particularly enjoyed chocolate liqueur.

  One day, while Betty was working on her accounts, someone barged into her office without knocking. Everyone knew not to enter her office unless they had been summoned by her. She shot up from her desk and reached for her gun, ready to shoot. Then she burst out laughing. “Sam! My god, you gave me a scare!”

  Sam, her old friend from school days in inner-city Chicago, a gangly man with a shock of dark hair, edged into the room, laughing nervously. “Don’t blow me away, Betty.”

  “Sit down, you big coward,” she said affectionately. “What brings you over here? Not in any trouble, I hope.”

  “Naw,” he said. “Just wanted to pick up some white. Wanted to see if you’d lend me some ‘cuz things are slow right now.”

  Betty paused. She never lent anyone cocaine, because she wasn’t prepared to go blasting people’s heads off if they didn’t pay up. She could get some of the boys to go do it for her, but in Betty’s mind, the cleaner her business was, the better. “All right,” she said. “But only because it’s you. And just a few kilograms.”

  “You’re a gem, Betty,” he said.

  “Lock the door,” she said. “I’ll bring it out for you.”

  When he’d locked it, she crawled under her desk. The coke was in a secret compartment in the floor, each brick weighing a kilogram. She pulled out three of them, then, feeling generous, pulled out an extra one. She and Sam had had a great history. He’d comforted her broken heart fifteen years
earlier, though not even his love and support had been enough to fix it. She still felt like there was a wound in her chest, and she’d never considered getting into a relationship with a man since Tommaso.

  “Here ya’ go,” she said, sitting back down and pushing the bricks that were wrapped in paper across her desk. “Put them away.”

  “Thanks, Betty,” he said. “I owe you big time.”

  “Naw,” she said. “You just owe me what it’s worth at this level. You’ll make a nice profit on that, Sam, ‘specially if you break it up small enough.”

  “And do some mixing,” Sam said with a wink.

  “That’s none of my business,” Betty said, holding her hands up. “Don’t make it mine.”

  “All right, all right,” Sam said, putting the cocaine in a small leather satchel he’d brought with him. “So, you hear what happened to Shirley Morris?”

  “Naw,” said Betty. She made a point of staying out of circles of gossip, even Mafia ones. She just pocketed her money and looked the other way. But this piqued her interest. “Why, what happened?”

  “Someone took her out,” Sam said.

  “What? Really?”

  “Tried to make it look like suicide. She had hairdressing scissors stabbed in her chest and a suicide note saying she was guilty for killing all of her husbands.” His voice became quiet and his eyes were intense. “Whad’ya think about that?”

  Betty felt an old heart-wrenching feeling in her chest, one that she’d felt for so many years. Not only had Shirley taken Tommaso, she’d murdered him in cold blood, too. She’d always denied it, but most everyone believed she was responsible for his death.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Betty said. “I mean, I’m glad that nasty murdering b-word is off the face of this planet. Someone had to do it, and as far as I’m concerned, they ought to get a medal for doing it.”

  “Right,” Sam said.

  “But… it doesn’t bring Tommaso back,” Betty mumbled more to herself than to Sam.