Embers & Ash (16 page)

The choice was stark—Doug, or the notebook and Vlad.

I leaned over my friend and used what I'd learned in first-aid class at Fep Prep, clearing his mouth of as much gunk as possible. Hands trembling, I tilted his head, held his nose shut, and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. There was no response, just me pushing air down his throat, and I paused, saying, “Come on, Doug! Not like this!” and resumed, breathing for him until he kicked and bucked, and I rolled him on his side as he vomited river water, gasped, puked once more, and drew in a huge gulp of air. I sat him up and held him in place like a big, awkward baby until he was breathing on his own. Kneeling next to him, pushing the rain from my face, I said, “Doug . . . thank god . . . you were . . . I mean, you almost . . .”

He quaked with a full-body shiver, blinked at me, and turned his head slowly. “Where's Harry?” he mumbled.

“Harry?” I said, looking out over the water. It was an expanse of gray ripples, swallowing up and smoothing over all signs of a crime scene. “He saved me,” I said, feeling my throat tighten. “Harry saved my life, again.”

“But . . . where is he?” Doug tried to stand but failed, his hands sinking into mud, eyes desperately sweeping the river.

“Vlad tried to kill me. Harry attacked him . . . they went under . . . Vlad came up . . .”

Doug looked at me with his face twisted in disbelief. “You—you let him go? You didn't go back for him?”

“I went back for you.”

He looked through me, and then back at the river. “Oh,” he said, biting at his bottom lip. “That's . . . too bad, because . . .”

“Doug,” I said, touching his shoulder, but he shrugged me off weakly.

“. . . because, you know, I love him,” he whispered, eyes shimmering with tears. “Harry's my friend. He doesn't care what I look like, or who I am, and . . . I think he loves me, too. I think so.” He spread a muddy hand over his face. “Yeah, he did. Harry loved me,” and he spoke other soft words that melted from his lips, mixing with tears.

Gratitude and guilt spiked my heart. Lou had rescued the little dog from a pound, using slow, kind patience to tame a wild nature spawned through mistreatment. The Italian greyhound took on aspects of my brother's personality—intelligence, fierce loyalty—and losing him was like losing Lou again. There was nothing I could say to make Doug or myself feel better, so I didn't. I kneeled, looking into the water until sirens cut the air, and then helped Doug up the embankment to the walkway. I hurried him onto Lower Wacker Drive where we wouldn't be seen; he moved as if sleepwalking, stealing glances at the river as we walked deeper into the Loop toward the Bird Cage Club.

I didn't look back, not once.

Harry was gone and we had to keep moving.

We could sit around forever hoping someone we loved would come back from the dead. But the only thing we'd probably get from that was dead ourselves.

THE RAIN STOPPED FOR GOOD ON FRIDAY
while lingering clouds bumped and swirled in the early-morning sky.

It was a day filled with reflection of the worst kind.

Doug sat on the couch wrapped in a blanket, bruised and sighing. He'd slipped Harry's dog collar around his wrist, vowing to never remove it. The ghost of our little friend permeated the place. Just as Eskimos can identify different types of snow, there are multiple variations of silence. The Bird Cage Club rang with the absence of soft whining demands to be petted, the tap-shoe sound of claws crossing the floor, and barks of joy at being fed snacks. Harry was gone, but he was all around us.

I lay on my mattress staring at the ceiling, suffering the loss of the notebook as well. My hope was that it had become waterlogged and unintelligible; if not, Elzy was surely scouring it for the secret to ultimate power. It was there, in the final chapter, “
Volta,
” handwritten decades earlier in Buondiavolese, an obscure form of Sicilian, by my uncle Jack. He had translated it for me, but in a fit of rage and ignorance, his daughter, Annabelle, destroyed his work. If Uncle Jack hadn't recorded the Troika of Outfit Influence in his screenplay
The Weeping Mafioso,
I would never have discovered the vault made of gold bricks. The problem now was that my dad was one of the few people in the world who read and spoke Buondiavolese; Uncle Buddy once confronted him about it in my presence, referring to it as a secret language shared by my dad and Grandpa Enzo. I assumed that my dad had denied knowing the secret to ultimate power, but now Elzy had proof of its existence, and would use every torturous method available to force my poor dad to translate “
Volta.
”

Gingerly, I touched the painful spots on my neck where Vlad's fingerprints were burned into my skin; in electrifying him, even that short burst, I'd inflicted the same damage on myself. It hurt all the way to the bone. I sat up slowly, grimacing with the effort, and shook an aspirin from a bottle. I turned the pill in my hand and considered swallowing it dry; after the previous day, I wasn't sure I'd ever go near water again. The sensation of drowning had invaded my dreams, and a text I'd received from Tyler minutes earlier brought back that stifling feeling:

Are u okay? Heard Red attacked out of the blue. Let me know u r safe.

—which meant news of the incident had leaked back to the Outfit. Tyler's ‘out of the blue' comment assured me, at least a little, that Lucky had told the truth—only the old man, Peek-a-Boo and me had known about the trade. But the text meant my failure to lead Lucky's handpicked men to the Russians had reached him, as well. I had no idea what the repercussions would be other than swift and unpleasant. I was about to text Tyler back when my phone rang. I put the aspirin aside and looked at the familiar number flashing on the screen—Knuckles. I lifted the phone, expecting him to try to coax information out of me, and said, “Don't ask about the bridge.”

“Came at you when you weren't looking, huh?” he said gravely. “Well, forget that for now. We got other fish to fry.”

I paused, bit my lip. “What do you mean?”

“Ed Debevic . . . has left the building.”

The room was perfectly still, but somewhere Outfit tectonics shifted. Lucky was dead less than a day after our sit-down, and all his power and secret plots were gone with him. It meant my fiasco on the bridge was gone, too, or at least on a back burner until the succession of a new boss.

At the other end, Knuckles sucked on a cigar and hacked like an old dragon. “Are you aware of your responsibility? What happens next?” he asked carefully.

“Yeah. Looks like I have an important choice to make.”

Knuckles cleared his throat. “According to the rules, you have to name Ed Debevic's replacement in precisely one week, at an Outfit-wide sit-down,” he said. “All members will be present, from the lowest pickpocket and pimp all the way to the top.”

“Next Friday,” I said quietly.

“Take the Gray Line subway train from Lawrence Avenue. Be in the station at 5:03 p.m. on the nose. Not 5:02, not 5:04. It'll take you to the meeting place.”

“Wait, you said ‘subway,' but the Lawrence Avenue stop is for an elevated train,” I said. “Besides, Chicago doesn't even have a Gray Line subway.”

“Chicago doesn't. But the Outfit does,” Knuckles replied.

I could almost hear him biting his tobacco-covered tongue, wanting to ask why I didn't know that, and hadn't my poor, sick dad told me about it? Apparently cold fury still held him in check. Instead, when he spoke, his tone was ingratiating, or more accurately, ass-kissing. “You know I've always respected you,” he growled sweetly. “Hey,
come due piselli in un baccello,
eh? Don't we work together like two peas in a pod?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “I wake each day wondering what new joy my trusted colleague—by that, I mean you—will add to my life.”

“Ha-ha!” He fake-laughed. “You're a kidder. By the way, speaking of kids, the last thing you want to do is select one for a man's job. Your other choice, that smooth-talking pretty boy, is a treacherous little turd. I've said it before and will say it again, he'll flash his pearly whites while cutting your throat.”

All I heard in his screed was the term, “man's job.”

Knuckles thought of me, and all females, as inept and of a lower intelligence, and choked on the fact that I served as counselor-at-large. The belief in gender superiority was endemic in the purely male Outfit—except for Tyler. If I had to choose a boss, of course it would be him. But I was unsure that he would agree to it, unwilling to go any deeper into the Outfit he despised. I'd never use cold fury to force him to serve, which left me with a true conundrum—who would I name as Lucky's replacement?

And just like that, I had the perfect answer, and a plan to save my family.

On the danger meter, it pushed the needle past red.

I put the aspirin back in the bottle. If the plan went awry, which was very possible, I'd need the voltage to zap my way free. “Anything else?” I said impatiently.

“Just remember, counselor, I'm at your service at any time of the day or—” Knuckles said, as I hung up on him and hurried into the other room.

Doug was slumped on the couch like a depressed burrito, brown eyes gone red from crying. I sat on the other end with Harry's curling-up spot miserably vacant between us. “I know that I should apologize for everything . . . messing up your chance to reach Czar Bar, losing the Lincoln, and oh my god . . . especially the notebook,” he said. “I'm so sorry, really, but none of it compares to the fact that I brought Harry along, and he—”

“It's not your fault.”

“Yes it is,” he said, wiping his nose. “I was trying to be your hard-ass partner, ready for action with a gun and a tough little dog, and . . . I got him killed.”

“Doug,” I said, “Vlad's men in the garbage truck were onto me from the beginning. They cut off the Outfit guys. I would've been walking into Czar Bar unable to use cold fury, without backup—who knows what would've happened to me? If you hadn't hidden in the Lincoln and brought Harry, I might have been dead.”

He sniffled, looking at me. “I'm still responsible. But they are, too.”

“Which they?”

“All of them,” he said bitterly. “Elzy, those Russian assholes . . . and the animals that make up the Outfit, it's their fault, too. Everyone striving for ultimate power, and all it led to is the death of my friend. It makes me want to . . . to . . .”

“Give up?”

Doug's eyes were suddenly dry and hard. “Kill every one of them.”

An image of that homicidal fantasy rose up before me, the still, cold bodies of my enemies, all the threat and danger vanquished in one fell swoop. If I had the chance, would I do it—
could
I do it? It chilled me thinking about that scope of murder, hundreds of lives, maybe more. “There's a difference between wanting to do it, and doing it,” I said.

“I know.” He sighed. “That's why I'm just sitting here. There's not a damn thing I can do.”

“Yeah, there is,” I said. “You can drive a stick shift.”

I told him about Lucky and then explained my plan, starting at “
Volta.
” With every Rispoli bone in my body, I was sure Uncle Jack's scrawled Buondiavolese revealed that ultimate power was actually billions of dollars' worth of gold. But there were factors on my side—it would take time for Elzy to dig through the notebook, and even longer for her to force my dad to translate the last chapter. She didn't know that I'd located ultimate power, so before she made any progress or hurt my dad further, I'd beat her to the punch.

I'd tell her what it was.

Doug listened to the details, and said, “You mean you're going to lie.”

“Am I going to tell her about the gold? Hell no—at this point, why should I? Look, according to the rules, I'm supposed to name either the VP of Muscle or the VP of Money as the boss, but screw the rules. Elzy thinks the notebook will lead her to total control over the Outfit, so I'll give it to her,” I said. “In exchange for my family, I'll name her as the new Outfit boss, and I'll present it—that level of total control—as ultimate power.”

“That's some risky business,” he said, sitting forward, throwing off the blanket. “Lying to her about what it is when she has the notebook. Using your role as counselor-at-large to sell out the entire Outfit. It'll cause a genuine shit storm.”

“There's no way to avoid it.”

“So,” he said, “what does driving a stick shift have to do with all of this?”

“If Elzy agrees to the deal, I won't waste a second waiting for her mind or mood to change. I'll go directly to Czar Bar and get my family,” I said. “That means a hasty retreat. The Lincoln's gone, all we have is the Ferrari. You're the wheelman, Doug—the getaway driver.”

“Getaway driver? I've been waiting to do something like that since forever!” he said with a fist pump.

“You won't panic and freeze up?”

“No way. I'll be thinking about Harry the whole time,” he said, the ruddiness coming back to his pale face. “Make the deal and I'll drive like hell.” I held his gaze until his determined grin died, frowning at him. “What?” he asked.

“What you just said about the deal. How do I contact Elzy?”

He went to his laptop on the control center, tapped some keys, and pointed at the screen. “There it is. Czar Bar's phone number.”

“Wait, you think I should just
call
her?”

“Why not?” he said. “Just ask for the boss.”

“What if they don't believe it's me?” Doug raised an eyebrow in a
seriously?
look. “Right. Of course,” I said. “How many me's are there?” I lifted the phone, took a deep breath, and dialed. It rang once, twice, and then the phone on the other end was lifted from its hook. It was quiet, not even an intake of breath. “It's . . . Sara Jane Rispoli,” I said.

There was no reply, but something lived in the silence, evoking an odd memory.

I was seven or eight, with my mom at a crowded street festival, and we stopped to have our palms read. The fortune-teller peered at my hand, and then into my eyes, and while I couldn't recall what she'd said, the experience then and now was the same—the creepy feeling of being known.

“Elzy?” I said.

The pause was filled with dead air and breathing, replaced by the sound of a palm held over the receiver. Behind it, I heard a muffled conversation, and then a familiar voice said, “Hello, baby!”

“Vlad . . .”

“You should've checked brakes on that clunker! Shame, shame! No safe-driver award for you!” He snuffled. “Hey, by the way, thanks for notebook and,
oh so sorry
about your friend!”

“My friend?” I said, looking at Doug watching me.

“It's no fun, dying that way, drinking Chicago River water, but hey, he had a big goddamn mouth so maybe it happened quickly, yes?”

“Yes,” I said quietly, “I hope so.”

“At least you got his body, so maybe you have nice little going away party. The doggy, on the other hand, the fish are chewing on his furry ass by now, I bet. He was a fighter, though. You should see my nose, or what's left of it! He bit, he clawed, and then, how do they say? All dogs go to heaven?”

The cold blue flame danced in my gut and a line of electricity crept up my spine as I said, “I want to talk to your boss.”

“You go through me or I hang up.”

With supreme effort I choked back the rage coursing through my body. “You'll find out soon enough, but I'm telling you first. The boss of the outfit, Lucky, is dead.”

Vlad repeated it with his hand over the phone, and said, “So?”

“So, tell
your
boss I want to make a deal. An exchange. Give me my family, and I'll give up . . . ultimate power.”

The line was quiet for a moment. “Go on,” he said.

I explained the counselor-at-large's responsibility to choose Lucky's heir—if they didn't believe me, they could ask my dad. “That's the deal. The entire Outfit will be gathered when I name her boss. At the moment of the announcement, all eyes will be on me, and I'll enforce the decision with ghiaccio furioso,” I said. “But that's all I'll do for her. I won't serve her as counselor. From then on, she can use her soldiers to keep the rank and file in line.” Vlad covered the receiver and the muted conversation grew more urgent. One voice, high and commanding, rose above the garble.

Vlad returned to the phone and asked, “Who else in Outfit knows you're offering deal?”

“No one,” I answered.

“You have officers, yes? VPs you call them. Muscle and Money, your comrades? You didn't warn them?”