Conduct Unbecoming (7 page)

“
Well, he had
drinks
with a member of the press last night.”  Of course he didn’t
know
she was with the press, but whatever.   

 
                 “Okay.”  Sybil nodded.  “It’s official.  You now have my full attention.”

 
                 “There's a story here, Sybil, I know there is.”  Harley curled her fingers into a fist, pressed it to her diaphragm.  “I can feel it.”

 
                 “So we should call Marshall in.”  Marshall Davis had covered the crime beat for years, and Sybil knew exactly what Harley thought of him.  “I know you don't like him, but he-”

 
                 “I
don't
like him.”  Harley cut her off, leaned forward in her chair.  “He's a pompous, egotistical ass.  A chauvinistic pig who's been just... calling it in for as long as I've known him.”

 
                 Sybil pressed her fingers to her temple.  A headache, maybe?  “Harley-”

 
                 Harley lifted a finger, cut her off again.  “But, that's got nothing to do with this. 
He's
got nothing to do with this.  This is about me being the right person to tell this story.  I've already started the research.  I’ve even got a couple of sources lined up.  Not to mention my connection with Dante Giancana.”  An exaggeration, yes, but not an out-and-out lie.

 
                 “I think-”

 
                 Harley jumped in again.  “I know a Degree in Comparative Literature doesn't exactly scream investigative reporter, but when you hired me you promised me a chance.  You said if I put my time in on the fluff - which I have - you’d let me try something... more.  Something real.”

             
“Harley-”

             
“I can do this, Sybil.  And after a million pieces about blow pop martinis and... and... clog dancing I think I at least deserve a shot at it.”

 
                 “Alright.”

 
                 “I mean I realize-”  Harley stopped in mid sentence, frowned.  “Wait.  What?”

 
                 “I said alright.”  Sybil lifted her shoulders.  “I promised you a chance at features once you'd proved yourself on the human interest pieces, and you’ve done that.  I'm not saying you won't be writing about vegetables that look like ex-presidents
next
week, but we'll give it a try.”

 
                Harley blinked.  “Are you serious?”

 
                 “As a heart attack, sweetie.  Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

* * * *

                  Dante pulled the door shut behind him and locked it, reached up to put the key back where he'd found it, up on the ledge above the door.  He considered taking it with him, but couldn’t bring himself to actually do it.  This was his brother's place, not his.  When Enzo came home - when, not if - things were going to be the way he'd left them.

 
                 The metal stairs up to the apartment were solid, but they clattered and clanked when Dante went down them.  When a familiar face popped out of the bar - to check on the noise, most likely - Dante ducked inside to say hi.

 
                 “Dante.”  The day shift bartender, Tommy Angelo, a stocky black man with the thick neck of a weightlifter, came out from behind the bar with his arms wide open, gave Dante a bone-crushing hug.  “Good to see you, man.  I heard about Enzo.  How's he doin'?”

 
                 “When I called this morning they said there wasn’t much change.  They're hoping he's stable enough today to get him back into surgery.”

 
                 “You need anything you let me know, ya here?”

 
                 “Thanks, appreciate that man.”  Dante turned to leave, then stopped.  “Hey, do you know if Enzo still plays basketball?” 

 
                 “Sure, yeah.  Coupla times a week.  Over at St. Michael's, mostly.”

 
                 “Thanks, man.”  Dante nodded absently.  “I'll check it out.”

Chapter 8

When he was a kid, Dante used to look for excuses to come down to the 115th.
  Pop forgot his lunch?  No problem.  Dante would run it over on his way to school, never mind that the detour added at least ten minutes to his route.  Unexpected snow storm?  He'd pester his mom until she loaded that big green thermos with hot cocoa and then he'd rush it over like he was delivering the cure for cancer or something.

 
                 In those days, cops - Pop included - wore crisp blue uniforms and smelled like Old Spice or Brut, their black wingtips buffed to a mirror-bright shine.  There were women working at the precinct - it was the 90's, for Christ sake - but Dante didn’t really remember any of them clearly.

What he
did
remember, besides the uniforms and the wingtips, was the smell of burnt coffee and the fat, pink wintergreen lozenges his father kept in his locker.

 
                Now the place reeked of cigarettes, which was odd, really, since the building had been smoke-free since 2007.  It stunk of sweat, too, and urine and some sort of industrial cleanser that was probably supposed to smell like pine, but didn't even come close.

 
                 And right now he’d rather be just about anywhere else on the planet.

 
                 He lifted a hand to knock on the door, but before his knuckles made contact it swung open from the inside.  Leo sucked in air, pressed his palm to his chest. 
“Damnit,
Dante, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

 
                 Leo stuck his head out of his office and looked up and down the hall, grabbed Dante's arm and pulled him inside.  He tugged the shade down to block the window, snapped, “How’d you get back here?”

“
I walked right in.”  Dante lifted his shoulders, glared.  “Guess it’s a good thing I’m not a disgruntled ex-employee, huh?”

“
Everybody’s a fucking comedian,” Leo muttered, shook his head in disgust.  “I thought I told you I’d call when I heard from IA.”

“
Great.”  Dante didn’t bother to fake a smile.  “But in the meantime I want to take a look at Enzo's locker.”  The older man's face grayed and he opened his mouth to argue, but Dante cut him off.  “And I need to talk to his partner, the guys he worked with,” he swore under his breath, shook his head.  “
Works
with.”  Goddammit, if
he
didn’t stop thinking of his brother in the past tense, how could he expect anybody else too?

             
“The locker's one thing, Dante, but these guys?  I just don’t see how...”  Leo let the words trail away, but the implication was clear.  The days of Dante having friends on the Chicago PD were long gone.

 
                 “I'm not here to make friends, Leo.”  A muscle at the corner of Dante's mouth twitched and jumped.  “And this isn’t negotiable.  Either you make it happen, or I will.” 

 
                 “Okay, okay.”  Leo scrubbed at his furrowed forehead for a moment.  “I'll see what I can do.  But you gotta remember, these guys,” he hesitated, shook his head, “these guys are always gonna wonder-”

“
I get it.”  Dante's head snapped up, an ugly jumble of anger and guilt burning in his gut.  “They’re gonna wonder why Patrick’s dead and I’m still walking around.”  Of course they were going to wonder, Christ,
he
wondered. 

 
                Leo put a hand on Dante’s shoulder.  “Kid, no matter what anybody else says, you are not responsible for Patrick’s choices.  You gotta let it go.”

Dante shook the old man’s hand off and turned to walk away.  Said,
“Make it happen, Leo,” back over his shoulder on his way out the door.

* * * *

Dante waited in the back booth at Clancy’s, a little mom-and-pop diner around the corner from the 115th.  He leaned back, legs stretched out in front of him, flipping the Roxi’s matchbook back and forth between his fingers while he watched the door.

He was on his second cup of coffee when a guy he assumed was Bobby Vega walked in; a young, clean-cut guy dressed in Chicago PD blue, his dark eyebrows pulled down in a surly-looking V as he scanned the room.

When Dante raised a hand, Bobby rolled his shoulders and headed over.  He was still frowning, but the V thing with the eyebrows wasn’t quite as pronounced when he slid into the booth across from Dante.  “Hey.  You’re Enzo’s brother?”

Dante nodded, introduced himself.
“Dante Giancana.  Thanks for coming.”

“
I’ve only got a few minutes,” Bobby cautioned before he asked almost grudgingly.  “How’s he doing?”

“
He’s... hanging in there.”  Dante set the matchbook aside, picked up his coffee.

“
Good.”  Bobby nodded.  “That’s good.  For what it’s worth, we’re all pulling for him.”

“
Thanks, appreciate that.”  Dante scrubbed a hand over his jaw.  “I was hoping you might be able to give me some idea about what he’s been up to.”

“
Up to?”

“
How he spends his time.”  Dante shrugged.  “Who he spends it with.”

Bobby was shaking his head before the words were even out of Dante’s mouth. 
“No.  No, not really.”

“
Any... new friends?  Hobbies maybe?” 

“
No.”  More head shaking.  “Well, not that
I
know of anyway,” Bobby stammered.  “I mean, not that he ever said.  We pretty much talked about work, you know?”

Eight hours was a long time to spend in a car without sharing at least
some
personal information, but Dante didn’t call him on it.  “So you don’t know what he was doing in Xavier Heights?”

“
I have no idea.  And believe me, I have been racking my brain trying to come up with a good reason for him to be there.  I mean I know money’s tight, but...”  Bobby lifted his shoulders, let the words trail away.

“
Enzo said he had money problems?”  Dante leaned forward, eyes narrowed. 

“
Just that it was hard to make ends meet, ya know?  Tough to get rich with the Chicago PD.”

“
But not impossible,” Dante murmured absently, picked the matchbook up again, flipped it open.  “He ever mention Roxi’s?  You guys maybe... stop in for a beer after your shift?”  Enzo didn’t even smoke, all these Roxi’s matchbooks had to mean something.

“
Roxi’s?”    

“
It’s a strip club.”  Dante prodded a little at Bobby’s blank expression.  “On North Halsted?”

“
Oh.”  Bobby shook his head, scratched his jaw.  Looked up and to the left.  Classic tell for lying.  Interesting.  “No way.  My wife?  She’d flat out
kill
me if she caught me in one of those places.”

When Dante grunted his agreement Bobby said,
“Well, my shift’s gonna start soon.  I gotta... take off.”  He hooked his thumb back over his shoulder towards the door, climbed out of the booth.  “So are you gonna be sticking around for a while?”

“
Oh yeah.”  Dante narrowed his eyes, the muscle jumping in his jaw.  “I’m not going anywhere until Enzo’s back home where he belongs.”

“
Well good.”  Bobby nodded, smiled faintly.  “That’s... good.  I’m sure it’ll mean a lot to him to have you here.  You know, if he... I mean, when he...”

“
Wakes up,” Dante amended sharply.  “When he wakes up.  And trust me, he
will
wake up.” 

Chapter 9