Flicker & Burn: A Cold Fury Novel (8 page)

THE DEEPER I SUBMERGE MYSELF INTO THE
Outfit and the more I struggle with whom I’m becoming, the more I doubt that anyone lives one life with only a single identity.

No one is solely who she says she is or does only what she claims to do. In the Outfit, every front business has a back room where the real business is conducted, and a person’s name on his driver’s license is not the name he goes by on the street. Smiling Bill’s Auto Barn, which sells steel-belted radials and snow tires on the showroom floor, also deals heroin out of the back, where Bill is not known to smile—ever—and is referred to by associates as “Willy the Needle.” The customers of a beloved Greek diner known for its simple but tasty fare have no idea that Gus, its kind, elderly owner who hands out lollipops to their children, is one of the most notorious bookies in Chicago, “Greasy Thumb” Gus, taking illegal action from addicted gamblers on any sporting event in the world. And it’s not just business owners. Police Detective O’Hara, twice decorated for heroism in the line of duty, has made so much money moonlighting as an enforcer for the Outfit that he was able to buy a cozy little weekend getaway in the Wisconsin Dells. His preferred method of enforcement is a lead pipe to the kneecap or elbow joint. Detective O’Hara has worked over so many bones, he’s known as “the Chiropractor.” It may seem like two-facedness is something to be endured only in high school—think of the super-popular cheerleader, envied by one and all, who suddenly kills herself or the straight-A honor student who deals weed—but the truth is that the potential for duality is alive in each human being.

I’m the perfect example.

From 8:15 a.m. until 3:30 p.m., I am Sara Jane Rispoli, Fep Prep junior.

During other more intense hours, I’m Sara Jane Rispoli, counselor-at-large.

Each time I preside over another sit-down between criminals, my brain grows more crowded with filthy, unwanted facts, and the more I become part of the Outfit. It’s a line you hear in movies all the time—“She knew too much”—but it’s true, I know far too much about far too many dangerous people. As I’ve progressed in the role, I’ve sat in judgment over conflicts about neighborhood prostitution borders, squabbles between drug dealers over contaminated cocaine, claims by extortionists, kidnappers, and gun-runners that they weren’t paid enough—and then there are the endless altercations between Money, the vital branch of the Outfit run by Tyler Strozzini, and the equally pivotal Muscle, directed by old Knuckles Battuta. They despise one another even more than when I first met them, but neither division can operate without the other; the business model of the Outfit is to generate income by usury, coercion, intimidation, and violence (Muscle), and of course, those brutal enforcers have to be paid for their work (Money). In the end, no one in the Outfit ever wants to concede an inch, or compromise, or make peace, and without ghiaccio furioso, no one would. My use of cold fury in settling disputes is of utmost importance since it gets business back on track, allows tainted profits to keep rolling in, and keeps the Outfit alive. I hate every vile moment of my role, and my loathing of the organization grows with each decision I make.

The problem is, I’m good at it.

I have no idea how my great-grandpa, grandpa, or dad ran a sit-down. But by trial and error, I devised a method based on a combination of movie courtroom scenes, debate club, and the “I’m counting to three” form of discipline used by my parents on me and Lou when we were little, as in “I’m giving you until three to put away your toys. One . . . two . . .” with the third digit holding the threat of punishment. In my case, Outfit goons have come to understand that by “three,” I’ll have grown angry enough that my blue eyes will start blinking, followed by the swift deployment of cold fury. Sometimes, the risk that they will be emotionally paralyzed into making a concession is enough to start a reasonable dialogue. But more often than not, I have to show them their worst fears, the ones that wake them in the middle of night with the type of dread that feels like drowning in motor oil—lungs clogged, hearts about to detonate—and then I make the decision for them. Certain things in the Outfit are sacred—money, the veneration of Al Capone, money, more money, and the role of counselor-at-large. They don’t like that I’m a woman, and sometimes I can feel their hatred of me—but without a Rispoli as counselor-at-large, there’s no them, no Outfit. I help those shadow people to live their double lives, secretly and profitably.

As much as I’m convinced of Outfit alternate identities, I believe the phenomenon exists in the general population as well.

How else to explain what Doug discovered on Friendbook? What other explanation could there possibly be for the participants on the Mister Kreamy Kone fan page? It was the same day Max had taken me to Rome. Even as he’d asserted his right to meet my family (how in the world could I weasel my way out of that?), I’d been thinking about the note Doug had left me and what he’d discovered. I’d hurried back to the Bird Cage Club after leaving Max, but the only thing waiting for me was another one written in the same hurried scrawl:

Harry and I ran an errand. No peeking at my computer!

Kisses—
D. Stuffins,
at your service

By the time he and Harry returned, I was a sweaty mess. I’d been so impatient that I’d had to work off pent-up energy on the heavy bag. I was unwinding the wraps from my hands when Doug entered, pulled the silver ice cream cone from his pocket, held it to the light so it glinted, and said proudly, “La Plata.” I looked from his plump grin to Harry’s dog smile, complete with little pointed tongue and wagging tail.

“Huh?” I said.

“The sixth-largest city in Argentina. Where this thing was made. It literally means ‘silver,’” he said. “I took it down to Jeweler’s Row and went store to store until some old guy who specializes in precious metals identified it.” He turned it on his palm, showing the inside. “See the letters inscribed below the edge?” I squinted at a tiny
L P, AR.
“It stands for La Plata, Argentina. The city has a tradition of silversmithing or smithery, or whatever you call it.”

I took it from him and inspected it. “So where does that leave us?”

“La Plata,” he said with a shrug. “It’s an Argentinian connection.”

“Vague.”

“At best,” he said, and grinned. “So let’s switch to specifics. How about a weirdo calling herself ‘Ice Queen’ who loves-loves-
loves
Mister Kreamy Kone!” He led me to his laptop, logged into Friendbook, and pulled up a page bearing a corporate logo—a glossy black ice cream truck with
MISTER KREAMY KONE
beneath it, and a wall filled with effusive commentary. There was nothing else on the page—no information about the company or its elusive whereabouts, no pictures of the freaky fans, and no further discussion. All it told me was that 1,686 people liked it, followed by lines of oddly glowing pronouncements about their beloved MKK—Mister Kreamy Kone. Reading on, I encountered words like
miraculous, unbelievable,
and
astonishing.

“A little over the top about ice cream, aren’t they?”

“Tell me about it. Check this out,” Doug said, scrolling down the page, tracing his finger on words. “There’s a phrase here, here, and here . . . it appears in a lot of the comments, right to the end.”

I looked at where he was pointing. “‘Life-saving’? It sounds more like a support group than a bunch of people who like ice cream.”

“No one has to tell me about the commitment a junk-food junkie makes to his favorite shit. Munchitos and I have a very meaningful relationship,” he said. “But these people are beyond that . . . the term
fetishistic
comes to mind. They actually get together just to eat ice cream. See?” and he pointed at the screen, which read:

MeltMyHeart:
Calling all MKK fans—it’s on! S-C Party next Fri. nite!

DoubleDip:
It’s about time! Ur a lifesaver! I need me some S-C!

SuperScooper:
When/where? Can I bring newbies?

MeltMyHeart:
All are welcome, especially new MKK recruits! 8:00 p.m. on the North Side, near . . .

“What’s S-C?” I said.

Doug shrugged. “Seriously Crazy? These people are freaks, I tell you.”

I stared at the address on the screen, knowing there could be a connection that would lead me to the Mister Kreamy Kone headquarters. “I have to go to that party,” I murmured.

“Are you nuts? What if that mutant Teardrop is lurking around?” he said. “Nope, I already made up my mind. I’m going.”

“I won’t let you do that. It could be dangerous.”

“Sara Jane,” he said, swiveling in his chair, “I
need
to go. It’s important that I’m a real part of this thing . . . a genuine help to you rather than the geek behind the screen. No one will even notice me. If these people are as into ice cream as they seem, I’ll be just another fatty. And if there’s something to learn, I’ll pick it up. Trust me.”

I looked at the earnestness in his eyes—basically, he was begging to put himself in harm’s way for me. There was no way to refuse, and I said, “I do. I trust you, Doug.”

“Fine, it’s settled,” he said. “Yay, I actually have plans for Friday night.”

I did too—a sit-down with Knuckles Battuta and a pair of his thugs. The two animals had argued over the best method to beat a gambling debt out of a late-payer—one preferred a Brick Job, while the other insisted that tossing the guy down a flight of stairs would do—and the disagreement grew until guns were drawn. The bad blood between the two enforcers had continued to flow until it was time for me (and cold fury) to intervene. Knuckles demanded peaceful coexistence, which meant productivity, which meant profits—how could he be expected to earn if his own guys were pointing guns at each other instead of at mopes who owed the Outfit money?

The week flew past, and on Friday evening, Doug and I went our separate ways, him to the mysterious S-C Party, and me to the sit-down with Knuckles. He’d suggested Club Molasses as a meeting place, located deep beneath my family’s bakery, which filled me with dread. I’d been purposely avoiding the place—seeing it so empty of life kick-started the type of depression I’d learned to avoid for my own mental well-being. In fact, I’d been careful to regularly update Knuckles on my dad’s illness, telling him that it was even more serious than we’d known, and that the bakery would be closed indefinitely. I made sure to include relevant details—how my dad couldn’t have visitors, how my mom was his sole caretaker, which was why she was never around, and how, besides school, Lou was always at my dad’s bedside—weaving the kind of tale that would deflect suspicion.

Except it had the opposite effect.

Knuckles could not have succeeded to a ripe old age in the Outfit without being skeptical of everyone and everything, and I knew he harbored doubts about my story. My saving grace so far was that I’d done well as counselor-at-large. Business was booming, and it was strictly against generations of Outfit protocol to make problems when the money was flowing. Still, it was a myth that everyone in the Outfit watched one another’s backs, like some kind of fraternal organization. The truth was that each hoodlum was loyal only to himself and his bank account. I wondered if he was testing me by insisting on Club Molasses for the sit-down. My own suspicion was a defensive skill that I, too, was developing as a member of the Outfit. Knuckles was teaching me by example that every crook had more than one motive.

And then he taught me something else.

I was waiting in the alley, dressed as usual for a sit-down in an outfit put together by Doug—black skirt and boots, white top, my dark hair pulled back. Doug’s inspiration was Loretta from the film
Moonstruck,
who, as he reminded me, was “An Italian-American bookkeeper, beautiful but all about business, emotionally stunted by loss, with no time for love.” I was thinking about that term
emotionally stunted
when I remembered Knuckles’s Scamp—there was no way the huge old man would be able to fold himself and his motorized wheelchair into the Vulcan. When I discovered the small elevator hidden inside the bakery’s industrial oven, even I had trouble fitting inside. Just then, his pink-and-blue van with
BABYLAND—FOR YOUR PRECIOUS BUNDLE, WITHOUT SPENDING A BUNDLE
emblazoned on the side rumbled to a stop. Knuckles unloaded himself, snapped a lighter, and put fire to a crusty cigar. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he said, and buzzed straight for the bakery’s alley wall. For as long as I could remember, a metal box had been attached there, stamped with the ominous warning
DANGER—LIVE ELECTRICAL CONNECTION—DO NOT TOUCH!,
along with an image of a tiny person getting zapped. It was held fast by a rusty padlock. “Well?” he said. “Got the key?”

“Um . . . ,” I said, pulling my dad’s key ring from my pocket. It held keys to our house, the Lincoln, and the bakery—I’d never really looked at them all. Holding the ring now, I saw a small red one. “I think so.”

“She thinks so,” Knuckles said, shaking his massive head.

My grandpa and dad had warned me never to go near the metal box for fear of electrocution, and my hand shook as I inserted the key. Instead of a
flash-buzz,
it opened without incident. Inside was a button, which I pushed. A low rumble and squealing of chains sounded far away as a door-sized section of the wall began to rise, the bricks rolling back on themselves like the tracks of an army tank. Inside was an elevator car. A small chandelier made of crystal teardrops hung from the ceiling. The car was lined in tarnished brass and trimmed in the same cracked green leather as the club’s bar. The wall bore a sign in golden script that read:

Club Molasses—One Story Down—Password Required

“Whoa . . . ,” I murmured, and immediately regretted the amazed tone, as if seeing it for the first time, which I was. I tried to cover, adding, “That thing
really
needs oil! Squeaky!” but Knuckles looked at me with slits for eyes. He rolled inside and I followed, trying to act as if I rode concealed alley-vators every day.