Embers & Ash (17 page)

“No.” I swallowed, thinking of Tyler.

“Good. Easier to get rid of them when time comes.” He chuckled. “So how soon until you use that witch power to make Outfit obey your decision?”

“The sit-down is a week from today, with every member present.”

He relayed my message, and then said, “Do it, and you can have family. By the way, don't be disappointed. They look much like my nose.”

“No—I get my family first,
now.
”

Vlad chuckled again. “You have sense of humor. In another time and place, we could've had fun. I would've shown you tricks I learned in prison,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Okay. We're all businessmen here—business
people,
I mean. You take mommy and brother. We keep papa until deal is done.”

“How do I know you'll let him go?”

“Because we don't need him no more,” he said. “Your papa's days as counselor are over.”

“What does that mean?” I asked carefully.

“It means he's retired,” he said. “Mommy and brother only.”

Elzy would have the same crimson eyewear as her Russians, which meant I couldn't force her to free my dad. My mind raced, with one thought in the lead—saving my mom and Lou was better than saving no one. “Okay, I said, “I'm coming to get them now.”

“No, no, no,” he said. “Don't be silly. We need a time to spiff them up and, how you say, wash their brains? Make mommy and brother forget things they've seen and heard? We're like Outfit, we have little secrets that can't just walk out door.”

There was no way to protest. All I could say was, “When?”

“You call back, after weekend, Monday—no, Tuesday,” he said. “An extra day to make you suffer, yes?”

“Tuesday,” I said.

“Hey, look on bright side. We got no more reason to chase your ass. Or maybe we do it just for laughs,” he said, covering the phone again. “One more thing. My boss comes with you to meeting. Outfit sees new leader face-to-face so clear they are under control of
Mafyia.
” It was another deadly wrinkle, a dangerous complication that could ruin my plan, but I had no choice except to agree. “By the way,” he said, “notebook is fascinating! So many secrets! You want to hear my favorite?”

“No.”

“Those Capone Doors! I
love
them!” he barked. “Your daddy denied they were real, just made-up stories in case cops ever find notebook, until we use jumper cables to make him tell truth! Now I'm looking for those crazy doors everywhere! So anyway, we talk soon, yes?” And he hung up.

I stared at the phone and looked at Doug.

“Well?” he asked.

“We have a deal.” I sat on the couch numbly and gave him the details. When I finished, I looked at him and said, “They think you're dead.”

“I'm a lot of things, but not that.”

“They're going to get rid of the VPs of Muscle and Money. Knuckles . . . he made his own bed,” I said solemnly, “but Tyler—”

“You have to warn him. Soon.”

“With Lucky dead and the Outfit in transition, it's a chance for him to escape, the opportunity he's been waiting for,” I said. “Same for you, Doug. Take the gold bar and get the hell out of here while you can.”

“Where?”

“I don't know. New Mexico or Fiji . . . someplace where the Outfit doesn't exist and there's no Russian mob.”

“And no you. I just lost Harry. You're all I have left. Besides, I love Chicago. Those bastards can't run me out of my town.” He pushed his bushy hair from his eyes, filled with resolution. “I'm in it to the end, friend.”

I knew what “friend” meant; the perfect definition was sitting across from me.

It was the other phrase, “the end,” that gave me pause.

It meant that something stopped forever, but greed, violence, and deception—the things that breathed life into the Outfit and the Russian mob—would continue long after the sit-down a week from today. They would continue forever.

I didn't care. I could live with that as long as my family was free.

SATURDAY NIGHT. MEETING TYLER IN AN HOUR.
Need to warn him,
I wrote in my journal. I glanced at the clock, which read 7:01 p.m.

I'd texted him yesterday and he'd responded immediately, relieved that I was okay. When I asked if he could meet this evening, he answered with a smiley emoticon, wondering if it was a date. I replied that it was business, and told him to be at the Davis Theater at eight, surprising myself.

The Davis had been Max's and my special place.

The night my family disappeared had been the Fep Prep spring dance. Before we parted that evening, Max asked me to a movie the next day. Of course I never made it, but later, during relatively (understatement alert) calm periods, we saw an overblown action flick there, and then another. We ate salty junk, watched some great films, some crap ones, and yeah, made out like crazy, since the place is really dark, usually empty, and one of those special old theaters that seem to encourage playing around. The fact that I wanted to take Tyler to the Davis meant—what? That Max having a girlfriend meant that I was over him? That I wanted to make out with Tyler?

It's business,
I wrote, underlining it.
Serious business . . .

Voices murmured from the other room followed by a muted shriek.

It was just something Doug was watching on his computer. He was alone on the couch, and he'd placed a pillow where Harry usually lay, absently petting it from time to time. I read the journal page I'd just filled, trying to recall details from the previous day that I might've skipped, but it was all there, from Lucky's death to the upcoming sit-down to the deal with Elzy. I bit the end of the pen and then wrote:

After I name Elzy as boss, both of our worlds, Tyler's and mine, will change. If possible, he's in greater danger than me . . .

I flipped forward, seeing that the journal was almost full, and backward, amazed at how much I'd written in just six months. I'd made the first entry the night my family disappeared and then, page by page, connected old secrets to new ones. The longer my family remained missing, the more detailed the information I'd recorded, linking the Outfit's past with the present. Suddenly a lightbulb went on in my mind, and I carried the journal into the room, showing it to Doug. “We didn't lose it, after all,” I said. “The notebook . . . it's right here.”

He looked up from the screen. “What are you talking about?”

“I recorded everything,” I said. “Every fact and secret, every Capone Door, rule, and rumor. The entire notebook is in these pages.”

“You should turn it in,” he said. “Give Thumbs-Up the surprise of his life.”

“Not unless I want to graduate in handcuffs.” I glanced at the computer, seeing velvety flesh, oozing blood, and gratuitous cleavage. “What are you watching?”

“
Sucker for Love,
” he said. “The vampire TV show. With Max's girlfriend.”

My stomach dropped hearing his name. Face burning, I said, “What the hell for?”

Doug looked at me, saw my expression. “Oh . . . sorry. I just wanted to see what she looked like, and—”

“Forget it.” I sighed, sitting next to him. “So. What does she look like?”

“She hasn't been on yet. I'll tell you one thing, there's a lot of sucking going on, but it's mainly the acting,” he said, “and—wait! That's her!”

“Which one?”

“The tall redhead in the thigh-high boots, with the crossbow made from a wooden cross. Get it?” he said, shaking his head. “Seriously, is there
anything
left in the vampire canon to exploit?”

“She's . . . curvy,” I said, staring at the screen, folding my arms over my chest.

“More like buxom. Busty even.”

“I've seen enough,” I said, rising from the couch. “Gotta get ready to go.”

“I'd be jealous if I wasn't so depressed,” he said, petting the pillow.

I dressed in something other than a Cubs T-shirt (something with an actual collar) and the jeans I chose didn't look as if they'd been stitched together from cast-off denim. I'd already subdued my hair with about a gallon of conditioner and now brushed the wild curls into black shiny waves. A smear of lip gloss, a mist of perfume, and I stared in the mirror at the final product. I still wasn't wild about my nose—that Italian cliché in the middle of my face—but it was part of who I was. I was okay with it.

Doug was slumped sideways on the couch when I crossed to the elevator.

Going closer, I saw that he'd nodded off hugging the pillow.

Onscreen, the busty vampire was literally sucking face with a guy who was either her victim or her boyfriend or both. I stared at her—sexy, tough, undead—and turned off the computer, her image disappearing in a flash.

It wasn't a stake through the heart, but it was the best I could do.

• • •

With no Lincoln and no time to uncover the Ferrari (it, too, was stored in the garage beneath the Currency Exchange Building) I was stuck with public transportation. It was a twenty-minute train ride to the Davis Theater; I hoped Vlad had been serious about not chasing me anymore. I took the elevator down from the Bird Cage and stepped through the Capone Door urinal in the Phun-Ho to Go men's room, then into the fast food restaurant itself. The place was empty; it was always deserted, for both lunch and dinner. The fuzzy TV on the counter was blaring something screechy and joyous from an Asian channel while the guy who ran the joint leaned on the counter as usual, focusing on the screen. I'd realized months ago that it was some sort of Outfit front business, and that he probably knew who I was, since I used his men's room as my own private entrance and exit. He was always there, in the same spot, early in the morning when I cut through with Harry (poor Harry) for a pre-school walk, and at all other hours; I wondered sometimes if he lived in the place and what type of criminal activity he fronted for.

I passed by him now and he didn't look up from the TV.

The train ride to Lincoln Square, where the Davis is located, was quick and blessedly uneventful.

Tyler was waiting in the lobby with popcorn, 3-D glasses, and a look of genuine relief. “Hey,” he said, kissing my cheek, smelling lemony fresh, “you
are
okay. The Russians just appeared out of nowhere, huh?”

“Something like that. I'm okay . . .”

“Better than okay. You look great, like you could star in one of these movies.”

“It would have to be a drama,” I said.

“Ed Debevic,” he said with a nod.

“I've got a big decision to make. Next Friday.”

“Yeah. I thought that's what you wanted to discuss,” he said, holding up the glasses. “That's why I picked the crappiest film.”

He wasn't kidding.

It was one of those films where you knew from the first second how it ends—the interplanetary cop with a chip on his shoulder redeems himself by trying to prevent Earth from blowing up,
yawn
—and the theater was empty. We put on our glasses, stared for a second, and turned to each other. “So.” Tyler sighed. “You have to choose a new Boss.” His face was taut, less curious than concerned.

“That's the rule. Either Knuckles or you.”

He nodded, saying, “Listen to this. I was meeting with Knuckles—more cash to fight the Russians—when news came in about you on the bridge. Guess what he said.”

“I'm sure it was tender and heartfelt.”

“The old bastard snorted and said, ‘That's what you get when it's a girl versus men. She took a dive, literally. Fighting is a man's job.'”

“‘Man's job,'” I repeated. “I've heard that one before.”

“Could you ever imagine that dinosaur as the boss, as the guy
we'd
have to answer to?” He chuckled, shaking his head.

“No, of course not. It'll never happen, not in a million years,” I said. “But . . . it's not going to happen for you, either.”

His eyebrows rose with the corners of his mouth, the grin amused and a little surprised. “What makes you think I'd accept being boss?” he asked.

“Nothing, but you knew I wouldn't name Knuckles,” I said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “So that leaves you. You had to be thinking about it.”

“Sure, it was on my mind,” he said. “This sounds crazy, but I even wondered, if I became boss, could I change the Outfit? Legitimize it somehow. Turn it into a real corporation instead of a criminal one. The organizational structure is in place—”

“It's impossible,” I said. “The members obey rules, mostly, but you know what really drives them.”

“Money,” said the VP of Money, as the film flickered around us. “It's all about the cash.”

“Wads of it, dirty and tax-free,” I said. “Greed trumps everything—loyalty, friendship . . . I've seen it in sit-down after sit-down. The rank and file are a bunch of violent psychopaths for a reason. It allows them to do
anything
for money.”

“They'd never settle for normal jobs and salaries. You're right. The Outfit will never change. It's our life,” he said, pursing his lips, “the only one we've got.”

“Maybe not.”

“What do you mean?”

I hesitated, unsure how to say what needed to be said without revealing too much information. “I've still got to name someone boss,” I said, lifting the 3-D glasses.

Tyler lifted his glasses, too, his green eyes cutting the gloom. “But not Knuckles or me. You're going outside the rules?”

I nodded once, slowly.

“Who?” he said.

I wondered then—what would happen if I told him about my family and Elzy? I'd asked myself if I could trust him, and I thought now that I could. As my Whispering Smith, he'd passed on information for no reason other than my safety, asking for nothing in return. I'd helped him with the smash-and-grab guy, but that was by choice. Tyler had gone further than me when it came to watching out for each other, alerting me to the threats dangerous men might act upon if my cold fury lost its hold on them. But something held me back—maybe a calcified instinct to keep my family's secrets, or perhaps I'd become too Outfit, too wary of showing all my cards—and I said, “I can't tell you. Not yet. You have money set aside, right? A stash of your own?”

“Yeah, of course, but whoever it is, you can trust me with it. You should know that by now.”

“I do, I trust you, Tyler. But I have reasons, personal ones, why I can't tell you,” I said. “Look, if there was ever a time for you to escape this life, it's right now, before I name the new boss. I don't want to do it. I hate this person as much as I've ever hated anyone. But I don't have a choice. Afterward, things in the Outfit are going to change. Muscle and Money are too important. The VPs . . . Knuckles and you . . . won't be allowed to keep your jobs.”

He looked at me solemnly. “How about our lives?”

A tingle of terror went through me, knowing Elzy's cold-blooded philosophy. “It's questionable,” I said, and paused. “No, it's not, it's certain.” I leaned close and put my hand on his. “I'm telling you this because I care about you. You have to trust me in return.”

He pursed his lips, looking into the distance. “I wish my dad was here. He'd tell me what to do.”

“He'd tell you to run,” I said. “You don't have a choice either.”

Tyler turned back and said, “What happens to you?”

“I have to see it through, name the boss, and then . . .” I shrugged, thinking of my family, and of escape. I'd told Tyler all I could. The rest belonged to me.

“One week until a new boss,” he said. “So are we saying good-bye for good?”

It struck me then that I was pushing him away for his own safety, losing him almost like I'd lost Max. A friend, someone I could trust, gone. “I think so,” I said, swallowing the words.

“I have so many questions—”

“I know you do,” I said. “But even if I answered them, it wouldn't help you now.”

He slid an arm around me, pulled me close, and we kissed briefly. “Thank you, Sara Jane,” he said. “I just wish it wasn't this way. We could've been—”

“I know. Me too. I wish . . .”

We sat back then, staring at the screen, waiting for the world to blow up.

• • •

We hugged outside the theater, holding on to each other until a sleek black car pulled up. Tyler got inside, lowered the window, and waved as it sped away. I watched until it was gone, then hurried down the sidewalk and onto a train. It took off with a lurch and then the tracks were clattering beneath me as I traveled toward the Bird Cage Club.

I stared out the window thinking of Tyler's words,
We could've been
—

This day had proven it. There were no happy endings.

Why are you so surprised?
I thought
. This is real life, not a movie.

The trip was as uneventful as the one to the Davis. I walked down the stairs and hit the sidewalk looking for utility vehicles and delivery scooters. Taxis passed by without pausing and a cop car sped around a corner barely slowing its pace. It was almost eleven p.m. when I passed through the grease-clouded door of Phun-Ho to Go.

The guy was behind the counter as always, the TV blaring into his face.

Something was different—I saw it immediately.

His eyes were pinned on me instead of the screen, tracking me to the men's room. He cleared his throat and I stopped. “Your carryout is ready,” he said.

“My . . . carryout?” I said suspiciously, surprised the guy could actually talk.

“Deliver itself, scratching on door,” he said, looking into the kitchen, whistling.

I heard the
tick-tacking
first, and then a low whine.

Harry limped out from behind the counter.