Embers & Ash (9 page)

“I know what you mean,” she said, “but she gave me a juicy tidbit. You know she's Max's cousin—”

That stopped me again. “So?”

“So,” she said, “it seems your ex-BF has a new GF . . . and she's an actress! That redheaded chick, what's-her-name, on that vampire TV show!”

I stared at her, feeling as if my heart was being clogged with wet cement. “I didn't need that today, Gina,” I said. “In fact, I don't need it any day.”

Her face shifted, the smile fading. “I just thought . . . you'd want to know.”

“Gotta go to class,” I mumbled, turning away.

“See you in Classic Movie Club,” she called after me.

I shoved my hands in my pockets, fingers grazing my phone, and thought of the last call I'd made.
One month and he's already seeing someone?
I thought.
I'm that easy to forget?
I knew my evasiveness and refusal to answer his questions had hurt him, but this hurt, too, and—I couldn't help it—made me really angry. I blinked once, feeling the cold blue flame leap and burn brightly. A line of voltage crackled over my shoulders, and there was a buzz at my fingertips, and then another.

It was my phone.

I blinked again, slowed my pace, and stared at a text message from Tyler:

Tonight, 10 p.m., lasagna with Aunt Betty, can't wait to see u . . . Candi.

Me 2,
I wrote back, and meant it.

THERE IS NOTHING PRINCIPLED, NOBLE, OR JUST IN
an organized-crime street war. It's a dispute over money, and every bill has blood on it.

I put down the pen and looked up from my journal.

The clock read 6:15. It was Tuesday morning.

My meeting with Knuckles and Tyler would happen in forty-five minutes.

The Bird Cage Club was silent. Doug and Harry were asleep on the couch in the other room, the little dog wrapped around Doug's feet. My eyes had popped open at 4:00 a.m., my subconscious churning with questions about how to offer Elzy four billion dollars for my family without getting captured, and how that would fit in with the street war.

At least one of those concerns was on Knuckles's mind, too.

Tyler had sent a text to him (and copied me) late the previous evening. It was a precautionary message, asking what ingredients were being used in the lasagna—the meeting. “Spinach” was code for a financial issue, and “meat” signified a hit, that someone was targeted for murder. Instead, Knuckles replied with another ingredient:

Red sauce.

The Outfit's code word for the Russians was “Red,” as in “Red hit on my girlfriend” (Russians are moving in on my prostitution trade) or “Red stole a cup of sugar” (Russians are taking over my cocaine biz). Knuckles wanted to discuss the street war, urgently.

There's a saying in real estate . . . “Location, location, location.” That's what the war's all about,
I wrote.
The Outfit controls neighborhoods on the South and West Sides where it sells drugs and hookers . . . where there are money-laundering front businesses, chop shops, and meth labs . . . neighborhoods that are prime hunting grounds for “zombies” (gambling addicts, drug addicts, sex addicts, whatever addicts), and Elzy wants those neighborhoods . . . no, scratch that: she's using her Russian soldiers to take over those neighborhoods.

I bit a thumbnail, trying to think like her.

Once she controls all of that area, she'll control the Outfit's cash flow, which means she has the Outfit. But members won't merge seamlessly with her mob. There will be deep distrust and resentment,
I wrote.
That's why she wants me. Whatever Juan Kone did to my dad, he must be unfit to serve as counselor. It's so clear: my job will be to force Outfit members into compliance. Along with the notebook—ultimate power—she thinks she'll have it all.

I thought of what I'd seen and heard over the past month, and what I knew.

In a series of sit-downs, the tenor of the discussion about the war had begun to shift from “we need to fight harder” to “the longer we fight, the more money we lose.” The conflict was bad for business—it required cash for weapons and cash to bribe law officials to look the other way, and worse, it took members away from their daily rackets, so they were unable to earn. While a small group of Outfit old-timers advocated fighting until the bitter end, the younger contingent, now the majority of members, were muttering about making a deal with the rival mob—to cede certain territories to the Russians and allow everyone to get back to the business of money, money, money.

What I knew was that Lucky, the Boss of Bosses, would never stop fighting.

He was Elzy's last barrier and he was formidable.

Chicago had belonged to the Outfit alone for a century, and Lucky was determined that it wouldn't change on his watch. At the outset of the war, he ordered me to be prepared to use cold fury to interrogate hostages, and said that if they had no useful information, it would be up to me to decide if they were tortured or killed. His directive came after Johnny Eyeball, the poor kid who was on his way to becoming an ice cream creature, escaped Juan Kone but was captured by the Outfit and mistaken for a Russian mobster. I took a huge risk, setting Johnny free, hoping that he'd find his way home. And then I lied to Lucky, telling him I'd killed the kid myself. But the Russians—the real Russians—were quick and crafty, and not one had been caught. With the rank and file's growing hesitancy to fight, along with mutterings about the hostilities being bad for business, morale within the Outfit was slipping. As VP of Muscle, it was Knuckles's job to keep the Outfit doing battle, swinging lead pipes and firebombing the Russians.

Is that what the meeting's about?
I wrote.
Maybe Knuckles wants me to use cold fury to force members to fight? Or needs Tyler to authorize money for . . . more weapons?

The alarm clock buzzed twice—6:30 a.m.

I closed the journal, rubber-banded my hair into a ponytail, thought about Tyler again, and removed the rubber band. After jumping into fresh jeans, I found a T-shirt that wasn't too wrinkled (thanks, Gina), and did battle with my hair until it looked like it belonged on a human head. At the last second, I touched my mouth with lip gloss.

As I moved across the Bird Cage Club, Doug rose on an elbow and said, “Good luck with Aunt Betty.”

“Thanks.”

“Tell Candi I said hi,” he said, followed by smooching noises.

“Shut up. Don't forget to walk Harry.”

“He won't let me, will you puppy-boy?” he said, scratching the little dog's head. “Take your aspirin?”

“Of course,” I said, averting his gaze. “Take a break from smoking.”

“No can do. That's the thing about a habit. You have to be consistent.”

“See you at school,” I said, stepping onto the elevator.

“Don't forget our meeting with Novak, after last period.”

“Damn school spirit.” I sighed. “Why does the guy have to be so gung ho?”

“Because Fep Prep is we,” he said lying back down, “or is it ‘are us'?”

• • •

I nosed the Lincoln from the parking garage, scouting for garbage trucks, street cleaners, taxis. Wells Street was deserted. Wacker Drive wound around to Lake Shore Drive, and then I was speeding north to Bryn Mawr Avenue. The pink colossus that was the Edgewater Beach Hotel sat a few blocks away. I parked on a side street and hurried to the rear of the building where a sign was posted above a brass pipe: FIRE HOSE CONNECTION. Making sure no one was around, I pressed the slightly raised
C.
A Capone Door sprang open and I stepped into an elevator that rose quickly to the roof.

I was the first to arrive and crossed the pebbled surface, watching sunlight push through clouds over Lake Michigan.

Knuckles's reason for choosing the location was obvious: it was empty, and miles beyond earshot of anyone. The Outfit built the hotel in 1928, with all the old villains—from Capone to Accardo— having spent time here. When I turned, Tyler was walking toward me, smiling. His green eyes and smooth dark skin sent a tingle across my shoulders, and then I had a heartbreaking flashback—not long ago, Max took me to the roof of an old church to watch the sunrise. Marble angels stood guard along its parapet, gazing mournfully at the beautiful, broken city. As the sun appeared, bathing us in a golden glow, Max called it “the light of Italy,” and I knew then that I loved him. But he was gone and Tyler was here, opening his arms for a friendly hug. I smelled his sweet citrus scent, felt his arms around me, and pushed away thoughts of Max.

Tyler inspected my cuts and bruises. “What happened to you?”

“Oh . . . I got into the ring. Did a little sparring,” I said.

“Must've been with a heavyweight,” he said.

“Yeah, you could say that,” I said, thinking of the debris that had fallen on me.

“Anyway, you look beautiful.”

“I look like it's seven a.m.,” I said, feeling a blush spread over my face.

“Yeah,” he said with a smile that was an ad for proper dental care, “beautiful.”

“Okay, well . . . you too, as usual,” I said.

“Hey, by the way, that loan shark over on Peterson Avenue? Mario something?” he said, dropping his voice even though we were alone.

“Caminetti,” I said. “I fined him twelve grand a couple of weeks ago. He's pissed off at me, huh?”

“Just wanted you to know. Safety first,” Tyler said.

“Thanks,” I said, giving his arm a squeeze, as a metal door slammed, followed by the crunch of wheels.

“Whatever you're doing, knock it off. I just ate,” Knuckles growled, rolling toward us. He was an enormous old man, slabs of geriatric muscle confined to a Scamp—a scooter-wheelchair—his face bisected by a scar inflicted long ago by someone who'd fought back; whoever that someone was, I was certain his last breath came soon afterward. Each time I saw Knuckles, I reminded myself that this giant, grandfatherly type had personally murdered dozens of people and orchestrated the beatings and deaths of hundreds more. He pulled a dandruff-flecked fisherman's cap back on his broad forehead and scratched a wooden match. The turd-cigar in his mouth flamed white and orange. Coughing out smoke, he said, “If I could personally rip the hearts out of every damn one of those Russians, I'd do it yesterday.”

“You didn't bring me all the way up here to tell me that,” I said.

“You didn't need to tell me at all. I could've guessed,” Tyler said.

Knuckles glanced around, seeing only indifferent seagulls, and said in a low, resentful tone, “I do need you, damn it. Both of you.”

“Oh?” Tyler said, interest firmly caught.

“From what I hear, Lucky ain't exactly in the healthiest frame of mind and body to be making decisions,” Knuckles said carefully. “Especially about this street war.”

“What are you saying? Is he sick?” I said, feeling slightly sick myself. After the incident with Johnny Eyeball, Lucky and I had come to a sort of understanding. He didn't ask about my dad's protracted illness and I followed his orders like the most obedient of counselors-at-large. I had no idea how I'd be affected if someone else were in charge.

“I'm saying what I'm saying and nothing more,” Knuckles muttered.

“Get to the point,” Tyler said. “Why are we here?”

“VP of Muscle,” Knuckles said, throwing a thumb at himself, and then pointing at Tyler and me. “VP of Money. Counselor-at-large. Only Lucky has more power in the Outfit than the three of us . . . at least individually. But if we join forces,” he whispered, “then we'll have enough combined power to take control of this
maledetto
street war.”

“Let me guess”—Tyler smirked—“you want to escalate it. Show those sissy Russians what it really means to fight? Enough of the firebombs, bring out the nukes!”

“No, smart-ass,” Knuckles hissed. “I want to end the violence.”

“Wait, wait—you, the VP of Muscle, whose life has been devoted to maiming and killing,” Tyler said, “want to passively resist?”

“You ain't understanding me,” Knuckles said. “I want to make a deal with the Russian mob.”

Tyler and I exchanged a look and I said it first. “You? A deal?”

Knuckles nodded his massive skull. “The Outfit has flourished for so long because we always put business first. That means we don't practice Sicilian vendetta. Someone offends you, pisses you off, and you start shooting, or worse, rat to the Feds? All it does is interrupt business. Instead, you take your beef in front of the counselor-at-large because that's the rules, and rules make money. And if a guy can earn, who cares if he's Sicilian or Jewish or—or whatever the hell you are,” he said, nodding at Tyler. “We even held our nose and let you in, sister,” he added, “with all due respect to broads.”

“Speaking for women everywhere, gee, thanks.”

“Look.” Knuckles sighed. “I've been around long enough to know that everyone—us, them, whoever—would rather make money than war. We stop fighting over the turf the Russians already took, maybe concede to them a little more, and it'll end, trust me. The Outfit will earn less, but we'll be earning. Besides, we've always been innovative when it comes to new sources of revenue. Hey, we're moving into online gambling, big-time, ain't we? The stinking Russians can't invade that space.”

“You think Lucky's judgment is . . . impaired,” Tyler said. “That his insistence on fighting is based on something other than business.”

“No one loves his job as much as I do.” Knuckles sighed. “Splitting heads is the poetry of my goddamn soul. But fighting a war works only when it
improves
business.”

“You mean, when we're winning,” I said.

Knuckles pursed his lips and gave a small nod. “In this case it's killing it.”

“I meet with our accountants every day,” Tyler said. “With members fighting instead of earning income and the Russians stealing our customers, profits are down. Way down. If Lucky's too old, sick, or whatever to make competent decisions—”

“You didn't hear that from me,” Knuckles murmured.

“So . . . what's your plan?” Tyler said.

“Send an emissary under a white flag, one of my guys . . . tell the Russian boss we're ready to deal,” Knuckles said. “If we don't put the guns down and start talking soon, we won't have any turf left.”

Surrender was the smartest thing for business but the worst thing for me.

If the three of us somehow managed to wrest control from Lucky, not only would I lose the old man's protection but also, making the deal would further embolden Elzy. The turf she'd taken and, as Knuckles said, a little more, wasn't nearly enough for her. She wanted everything, especially the notebook and me. I shook my head. “No. I have to stay loyal to Lucky. He's the boss. What he says goes.”

“What's gonna go,” Knuckles said through gritted teeth, “is more cold, hard cash, right down the crapper!”

“Lucky's orders are clear. We have to keep fighting,” I said pointedly, “instead of surrendering like cowards.” The old killer stared daggers at me and then turned away, muttering under his breath.

“Sara Jane,” Tyler said. He looked at me closely, narrowing his eyes like a mind reader. Something in his gaze made my heart take an extra beat as he turned to Knuckles and said, “She's right. We have to stand by Lucky. You said it yourself—the Outfit is nothing without rules.”