Embers & Ash (23 page)

“You'll never find ultimate power,” I said. “It will die with me.” The stench of melted skin and hair assaulted my nose, my guts, but didn't make me half as sick as the unhinged look she flung at my mom, Lou, and Doug. “Kill them and you'll have to kill me, too,” I said. “The only thing that will get me out of this bakery is a coroner.”

She jerked me in Doug's direction and said, “Follow us. I
dare
you.”

“Doug,” I grunted, as Greta yanked me by the hair, “go.” He looked at her and back at me, nodding. “Lou's arm—get the drugs out of him . . . both of them.”

“Turn. Walk,” she said, and I did, gun in my spine, out the door and down the sidewalk. She shoved me across the seat of a cargo van, into the driver's side. “Steer this thing anywhere other than directly to ultimate power and I will blow your brains out,” she said, cradling the back of her head. I dared a glance, saw moisture in her eyes, and she screamed, “Watch the road!” To herself, as if I wasn't there, she mumbled, “Damn you Rispolis all the way to hell.”

Cursing us wasn't necessary.

I sped toward the Green Mill thinking of my parents, Lou, poor Uncle Buddy.

We'd all been in hell for a long, long time.

WHEN IT COMES TO A BUSINESS, ESPECIALLY A
bar, owners tend to lock the back door in a way that could withstand military invasion. No one ever really thinks that a break-in will occur in the front, in broad daylight, where anyone could witness it.

It was four o'clock on a normal Friday afternoon.

I had to be at the Gray Line subway stop in precisely one hour and three minutes.

Greta and I stood outside the Green Mill, which didn't open until six.

People milled around on the sidewalk doing what they do in every big city in the world, smoking and spitting, waiting for the bus, pointedly minding their own business. I still had the bent metal clip I'd used in the Willis Tower and I worked quickly, jimmying the lock. No one looked twice. We stepped inside the empty club. A thin wire over the door led to an alarm box, where a tiny red signal was flashing. I knew (from the notebook, of course) that I had only seconds to disable it before a signal was sent to the security company. A quick flick of Doug's lighter burned the wire in two and the signal went dead. I slid it back into my pocket, thanking it for being the luckiest little gadget in the world.

“Hurry,” Greta said, gun between my shoulders. I led her behind the bar, looked around, and picked up a small paring knife. Immediately the gun was in my face as she said, “What the hell are you doing?”

“We're going to need it.”

“Give it to me,” she said, plucking it from my hand.

I slid back the mat and pulled open the trapdoor. The rickety stairway yawned before us, exhaling the mustiness of deep earth. “Watch your step. The stairs are dangerous. Wouldn't want you to fall.”

“Shut up,” she said, and then we were descending, Greta close behind as I felt my way along the cool wall. We reached the bottom and moved through a short tunnel, the weak glow of the overhead lights I'd left burning visible at the end. Seconds later we entered the enormous room with the igloo-like vault in the middle of the floor. “Is that it?” she asked. I nodded and she pushed me forward. I turned the knob on the heavy brass door and it clicked loudly. As we stepped inside, half a dozen rats skittered in with us. I had time to think,
Antonio and Cleopatra?
before Greta said, “Filthy rodents,” and pushed the door shut with an audible click. The rats skulked around the edge of the room as she glanced at the headless corpse of Al Capone, and then at me, eyes tapering to slits. “Where is it?” she said suspiciously.

“Right here.” I waved a hand at the white bricks. “Everywhere.”

“What do you mean? Where the
hell
is it!”

“Give me the knife and I'll show you.”

She paused, and lifted it slowly. “Don't be stupid.”

“Been there, done that,” I said, and went to the nearest wall. I chipped at it, the paint falling like dry white snow until a coppery yellowness broke through. Greta approached, inspecting it, as I crossed to the opposite wall and did it again. She followed, running her hand over the smooth, cold metal. “The whole thing,” I said. “Thousands and thousands of gold bricks. Al Capone's fortune.”

Licking her lips, she said, “More. More.” I scraped another brick, and another, ten more, thirty more, as Greta stood back, looking up and around the domed room. “My god,” she whispered, awestruck, a joker's grin spreading over her face. “
My god!
This is it! Ultimate power!”

“Four billion dollars' worth.”

“It's all mine, the biggest score ever,” she said, as if she'd just been handed the deed to planet Earth, and turned to me, eyes shining. “I can do anything, go anywhere. I don't need the Outfit, the Russian mob . . . I don't need anyone . . .”

Including me.

A blazing moment of clarity told me how stupid it was to have brought her here. Greta didn't care about revenge, or my servitude, or controlling Chicago—those things were means to an end. Like the purest of criminals, she cared only about money. With ultimate power, she didn't need me any longer.

My second thought—how much better it would've been to die with my family and my best friend. I would never see sunlight again because I was defenseless. Cold fury had no effect on her and the aspirin nullified my internal electricity. I could attack her, but in the enclosed space, she would shoot me down before I threw a punch.

And then I remembered what my old boxing trainer, Willy Williams, had taught me.

Sometimes running from a deadly opponent is the best defense.

Greta was distracted as she scraped at bricks, lost in a golden haze. My final move would not be cold fury or a left hook—it would be a mad dash for the tunnel to the Green Mill. I might not get far, might catch a bullet in the back, but at least I wouldn't die just standing here, waiting for it. Stealthily, I moved toward the door, and with my back against it, found the doorknob.

Except there was no doorknob, only a small handle.

I pulled it, and then once more, with as much strength as I could muster.

It was locked tight.

When Doug and I discovered the vault, the door opened without need of a key since there was no keyhole; we'd turned the knob and it had opened with a
click
that echoed through the subterranean chamber. We entered and left the door ajar, mindful of the need for a hasty escape. When we exited, I closed it, tried it again, and it opened. We couldn't figure out why Al Capone hadn't simply walked out, and why Great-Grandpa Nunzio had taken such care to place the U.N.B 001 key in the notebook, and—

I felt around the cool brass, finding a deeply engraved indentation.

There was no doorknob, just a small handle—but there was a keyhole.

It was a classic Outfit touch, courtesy of Joe Little—a door that unlocked from the outside with a simple twist of the knob, but that locked on the inside when the door was shut. Anyone could enter the vault, but no one could exit, ever, without the key. It was a wickedly ingenious design. If anyone ever found the vault, he'd enter looking for what lay inside, closing the door behind him so as not to be discovered, not realizing until too late that ultimate power was—and my dad's words echoed from a park bench near Lake Michigan, chilling my spine—
a golden trap.
He must've assumed I knew how the lock worked. I didn't then, but I did now.

“So have you figured it out?”

My head snapped up and I saw Greta, red lips parted, moving toward me while twirling the gun on a manicured finger. “What?” I said, swallowing thickly.

“Your fate,” she said with a smile, “the one you'll share with your mother and Louis, and that friend.” When I didn't answer, she said, “Let me demonstrate,” and turned and fired once. The report of the gun was cut by the shrill cry of a gut-shot rat. Its compatriots shrieked in a terror that became rage, skittering protectively around the body, shielding one of their own. Greta blew on the barrel theatrically and swaggered to the middle of the room, lifting her arms like a goddess in her realm. “Screw the Outfit!” she said, turning in a slow, celebratory circle.

As soon as her back was toward me, I fumbled the key from around my neck.

I spun and pushed it into the keyhole but it didn't work. I flipped it over, tried again, and it fit snugly.

I turned quickly, hands behind my back, fingers gripping the key.

“And screw Chicago!” she crowed, turning. She looked at me with a raised eyebrow and nodded peroxided locks at the withered corpse. “Al Capone?”

“Yeah.”

She walked toward him, hands on her hips. “Thanks, Alphonse, you dead son of a bitch. You and the rest of your organization underestimated
real
ultimate power—a determined woman. Then again, some of us broads have it and some of us don't,” she said. She swiveled her head at me and said, “I guess you learned that the hard way.”

“I guess so,” I said, turning the key with a cautious thumb and forefinger.

Greta looked back at the dry bones and webby flesh, showing the raw, red
R
burned into her skull. “Hey Al,” she said, “let a master criminal tell you what she's going to do with four billion dollars . . .” and in that split second I pushed open the door, slid outside, and jerked it shut behind me, hearing a loud, lovely
click!

And then it was as silent as a tomb.

Muted behind the heavy door, a small, confused voice said, “Sara Jane?”

There were footsteps, a useless yank on the inside handle, and then the yanking became furious, desperate—and stopped. An Outfit instinct kicked in, and I stepped away just as the firing began, bullets punching heavy brass, causing little metallic bumps to rise on the outside but doing no real damage. When the gun was empty and the ringing faded, Greta said quietly, “What do you want?”

“You can't give it to me. No one can,” I spoke to the door. “It disappeared the night my family was taken.”

“I'll give you anything,” she pleaded. “You can have half . . . no,
all
.
You can have
all of the gold
!”

“Say please.”

“Please! Please!”

“No thanks. You wanted ultimate power. Now you've got it,” I said, slipping the key back around my neck. “Forever.”

“Let me out! We were family!
Sara Jane!
” she screeched, as I turned and entered the tunnel. I climbed toward the Green Mill quickly, and had just stepped on the platform and pushed open the trapdoor when the stairway groaned beneath me, followed by a loud splitting of old wood. I scrambled into the Green Mill just as the stairway collapsed, and then the platform did, too, clattering to pieces into the tunnel below. On all fours, staring into the hole, I heard Greta's final, distant words drift up like eddies of graveyard dust.

“You can't leave me here . . .
all alone!
”

I shut the trapdoor and slid the mat into place, knowing that I hadn't.

The term
rat
is used unfairly.

In reality, a rat is a loyal and courageous beast that will do what's necessary to protect its family, always making sure they're safe, cared for, and, especially, well fed.

FOR SOMEONE WHO'D SPENT THE DAY BEING
assaulted, had nearly been shot several times, was reunited with her lost mother and brother, and had sealed away her worst enemy in middle earth, I was, not surprisingly, running a little late.

It was 5:01 p.m. when I locked the front door of the Green Mill behind me.

The Lawrence Avenue El station, where I'd ride the Gray Line subway to the sit-down, was just across the street. I hurried over the concrete knowing that ultimate power and its occupants lay beneath my feet. Greta and Al Capone—roommates for eternity.

As I crossed the boulevard, a flash of light caught my eye.

A rainstorm was looming, making it darker than usual for that time of day. I reached the sidewalk, looked up, and spotted a beam of light. It had come from the south, sweeping dark clouds as if sending a signal, just like—

“A beacon,” I whispered.

There was no other proof than the assurance of my gut that it had come from Doug, shining it from the Bird Cage Club. What was he trying to tell me—that he'd gotten my mom and Lou there safely, to be careful and find my way home? I looked up at it once more before rushing into the station. My instructions had been clear—locate the Capone Door that led to a secret platform and be waiting there on the dot at 5:03 p.m. I had two minutes. Reverse commuters, people arriving back on the North Side early from work, were already pushing through the turnstiles. I looked around the station, eyeing the Chicago Transit Authority logo—CTA—emblazoned on a wall. It was large and visible, in the middle of everything, but that
C
had to be the Capone Door. I went to it, casually leaned against it, and—nothing. I tried again, this time turning and pushing on it, not caring if anyone was watching. Same result, nothing. I glanced at the cashier, who was watching me. She shook her head in a bored, just-another-crazy-at-the-train-station way and went back to work.

A digital clock suspended from the ceiling clicked to 5:02.

I looked around anxiously, stalking through the station, elbowing people in a hurry, and glanced into a dark corner. Squatting in a shadow like a small, abandoned house was a crusty, flyspecked soda machine. I moved toward it, reading its name—FizzyCola—a weird brand that I'd never heard of. A person would have to be as thirsty as if he'd crossed the Sahara barefooted to buy a FizzyCola, and I carefully pressed the raised
C.
The face of the machine opened and I stepped inside to a stairway so narrow my shoulders brushed the walls. I descended as quickly as possible, hearing the whistle of an approaching train. The wooden platform was there, I could see it, and I leaped the last few steps, landing like Spider-Man on my feet and fingertips as the single steel subway car shuddered to a stop. It was empty, not even a conductor. The doors slid open. I brushed myself off and stepped aboard, and it barreled away before I sat down. The train took fast corners, dipping and falling. I tried to orient myself, deciding finally that I was traveling east, which gave me pause. Like all great cities, Chicago is a water town. The Chicago River cuts through the metropolis, snaking north, south, and west, all the way to suburbia.

The only thing east of the city was Lake Michigan.

How could I be traveling toward that great inland sea?

There was no one to answer the question and nothing to do but wait.

Thinking of the golden vault, I touched the key around my neck; I'd never know how Great-Grandpa Nunzio acquired it. Did he use cold fury to make Capone give it up, and then order the gangster to sit inside forever? Had he somehow lifted it from Capone and snuck out, closing the door behind him, like me? Either way, the letter he'd left for Grandpa Enzo beneath the notebook's back cover made it clear—he'd hidden the key for future Rispolis, suspecting that history might repeat itself. Another psychopath would come along, wreaking havoc while seeking the power of a magnificent fortune. When it happened, Nunzio wanted his family to be prepared.

Fortunately, in those last crucial seconds, I was.

What I was wholly unprepared to do was name a new boss.

My deal with Greta had been entombed with her.

The rules called for me to name either VP of Money or Muscle, of course, but I'd effectively erased Tyler's chance of ever holding the position, and Knuckles—if I named him boss, I was sure he'd never again meet me face-to-face without someone, or a bank of closed-circuit cameras, watching. I'd used cold fury on him in the past. The devious old killer would not allow it to happen once he was boss. I thought of the beacon, yearning to follow it safely home, but it was a fantasy, no help to me now. With a sigh, I stared at my reflection in the train window and reviewed my options.

I could name someone boss, anyone, and offer him four billion dollars in exchange for allowing my family and me to go free.

But I'd tried that with Greta, who was as untrustworthy as any thug in the Outfit, and I had no doubt it would restart the entire tragic cycle. Plus, the stairs had collapsed; it would be nearly impossible to reach the vault. Even if the new boss believed it existed, even if he was patient enough for me to lead him there, he'd take the gold, break the deal, and shackle me to my duty. It was also possible Greta would still be alive. That would be a little tough to explain.

We could run for it. I'd name a boss, shake his hand with a promise of loyalty, go back to the Bird Cage Club, and pack up.

Another fantasy. Lou and my mom were broken, physically and mentally. Making an escape required time, planning, and a significant amount of money. I'd been paid as counselor-at-large, but not nearly enough to disappear without a trace. Besides, it still wouldn't assure our freedom. Lucky had it said it plainly—no one walks away. I knew from my tenure as counselor that even when someone tried, the Outfit was unusually talented at tracking down defectors and their families and making sure they never walked anywhere again.

The train began to rise quickly from the tunnel. Watching beads of water stutter along the cool windowpane, I thought of the three generations of Rispoli men, willing participants in the organization, and how their involvement had infected our lives.

I was the opposite of a willing participant.

“I'm a prisoner,” I said aloud, the words making me feel as lonely as I'd ever felt.

With no other thought than hearing his voice, I dialed Max's number.

Two short rings and he said, “Hello?”

The normalcy of the question, the clear, steady tone of his voice, made my heart swell with remorse, love, and loss. I pictured him in the bright L.A. sunshine, curly brown hair flopping over an eye, holding the phone in one hand while Vampire Girl held the other. I didn't care. I just wanted him to say hello once more before I hung up.

Instead, he said, “I know it's you.”

I froze, mouth open, silent.

“Sara Jane,” he said. “Come on. Those calls . . . I could feel it was you.”

Whatever wall I'd built between us came tumbling down. “Max.” I sighed.

“There you are,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his words.

For a few minutes we talked about nothing.
Where was he?
Between classes.
Where was I?
On the train.
How's school?
He had three weeks until holiday break, but I'd finished early (actually, forever).
Are you seeing anyone?
He was, but not seriously, she was too clingy.
And me?
I'd gone on one date but it didn't work out—I'd turned around and headed home.

“I can't believe it's only been a month,” he said.

“It seems like longer,” I said, and then, “Max. It—the way it ended up between us. What you said in your letter. There are so many things I should've told you.”

“Yeah, you should've. Why didn't you?” he asked.

“Because,” I said. “I just couldn't, okay?”

“No, not okay. It was answers like that one that broke us up.”

“I know. You were so patient,” I said.

“That was my mistake. But the rest is on you,” Max said, and then he was silent. He wasn't angry or accusatory; he was just speaking the truth, and I bit my lip, unsure how to answer. “By the way,” he said, the smile back in his voice, “I'm a totally impatient asshole now. So thanks for that.”

“You're welcome,” I said.

“Can you tell me those things?”

“I'm about to get off the train,” I said, feeling it slow down. “I have this really important meeting. But I want to tell you, Max. I will tell you, someday.”

“Someday . . . ,” he said.

“I promise,” I said, as the train shuddered to a stop.

“Okay, sure,” he said quietly. “Call me someday.”

I stepped from the train onto a slick stone platform. The subway tunnel was empty and quiet, cut by the sound of the dripping ceiling. A painted hand pointed up a flight of stairs that clung to a brick wall. A sign affixed to the wall read
MEMBERS ONLY—NO
EXCEPTIONS
.

Smoothing and retwisting my hair into a ponytail, wiping the grime and sweat of the terrible day from my face, I started up the stairs. Through the wall along which I climbed, in the guts of the building, a muted exhalation sounded, over and over again, of water being pulled in and pushed out. The stairs ended at an outdoor walkway where I could smell the clean, fishy scent of the lake. I stepped outside, peering across glassy water at the faraway city. Looking around at the enormous round brick structure upon which I stood, and which squatted miles from shore in Lake Michigan, I knew exactly where I was: Water Intake Island, the largest pumping station and one of the most isolated spots in Chicago. The train had carried me beneath the vast inland sea.

“Counselor Rispoli,” a voice rumbled, sounding like
Riz-booli.
I turned to the stern, gray presence who'd been the gateway to Lucky at the Algren Hotel. He shifted an AK-47, and said, “This way.” We climbed another set of stairs to the large, circular lighthouse sitting atop the pumping station like the second layer of a wedding cake. Pausing outside double doors, he appraised me coolly and then pushed them open, followed me inside, and bolted them behind us.

We entered a high-ceilinged room, also built of brick. Hundreds of rank-and-file members crammed the space, some sitting, some milling about, others in murmuring groups beneath hovering clouds of cigarette smoke. They consisted of young and old men of every body shape and size. The only common themes among them were being armed (they trusted no one) and anonymity. They were dressed to blend in with the general population, looking like a quiet neighbor, a reliable mechanic, or a friendly plumber, since that's what they were on the surface. In reality they were enforcers and hit men, drug dealers, pimps, counterfeiters, and thieves, one life a façade, the other operating in the underworld. There was not a man present who would not slit a throat for a dime. They were evil wrapped in skin and hair, two legs, two arms, and a head, and all of them were staring at me now.

A dais stood in the middle of the room.

I climbed it with the stern gray presence behind me, and stared back.

The rank and file crowded forward like the audience at a concert. Tyler and Knuckles occupied opposite ends of the front row where everyone could see them. I scanned the room, spotting no crimson lenses or goggles. Tyler had done as ordered, bruised and bandaged but with chin held high—my most ardent supporter. Knuckles sat in his wheelchair, hat off, thin hair combed greasily across his skull. Now and then, one of his men would lean in and whisper, and the old killer would grin confidently, striving to look like a leader of men. My decision would be announced, and then enforced with cold fury.

The answer came to me then in the blink of an eye.

When I blinked mine, I would have the entire Outfit under my control.

They would stare at me because it was the rule—because they wanted to be led.

I'd killed human beings to survive and protect my family. If it was justified, what was the difference between two or three, or a thousand? I could command them to stand still, not make a move as I went man to man, using their own weapons. Or even better, I could order them to kill themselves. Blood would flow on Water Intake Island. It would swirl and mix into Lake Michigan and my family's greatest sin, its greatest threat, would wash away forever.

Looking at the rapt crowd, I heard my dad's voice speaking to me again:
There's a line. There's always a line . . .

This was it—mass murder that would lead me across an abyss.

I'd be free of the Outfit but lose myself forever. I could already feel it. Alive on the outside but dead on the inside, smothered beneath a thousand souls.

Other words came back to me, Peek-a-Boo Schwartz in a glass dome whispering that the only way to destroy the Outfit was:
Like cancer . . . from the inside out.

A sudden realization stretched before me, filled with six months of fear that the Outfit would discover my dad was missing and assume he'd gone to the Feds as a rat. In that moment—feeling the danger, tasting the peril—I knew exactly who should be boss.

Someone who would betray the rank and file.

Conspire with the Feds to kill the Outfit from the inside out.

Become the queen of all rats.

“The new boss of the Outfit,” I said, as the flame flickered and burned, lighting the room with a cold, blue glow,” . . . is me.”