Chapter 30

Just south of Wrigley Field sits its canine counterpart, known to the locals as Wiggley Field. The dog park was empty, save for an old man sitting on a park bench, smoking a cigarette and trying to ignore a standard poodle.

Vinnie DeLuca had lived in the neighborhood for the last decade. Why, no one could figure out, although plenty of people tried. Vinnie started in at nine years old, a runner for Capone’s gang on the South Side. Today he was eighty-six, the last living link to Scarface and the undisputed leader of Chicago’s outfit for at least the last three decades.

Vinnie was old-school. At his age what else could he be? In the late seventies he conceded the street trade in drugs and guns to Chicago’s gangs: first to the Gangster Disciples, then the Latin Kings. Now it seemed they changed names every week. Vinnie still took a cut but never really looked back. Instead, the family took its business downtown, infiltrating Chicago’s corporate culture. Wiseguys set up on the Board of Trade and the Merc, on LaSalle Street, inside the lending rooms of banks and board-rooms. Millions of freshly laundered dollars went into real-estate development, strip malls, and shopping centers. Of course, Vinnie never went anywhere without a politician or two in his pocket. With the money they could throw at a campaign, the family usually had its pick.

The old man was rarely seen in public these days. I watched from the front seat of my car as he finished his cigarette and threw the butt to the ground. The poodle lifted his leg and christened it. Vinnie kicked the dog, took what looked like a racing form from his back pocket, and began to read. I got out of the car and walked toward the park. I could see Joey Palermo get out of a Lincoln halfway down the block. I spotted two other cars. Behind the tinted windows were men with guns, waiting, watching, probably bored but ready to kill me just the same.

Palermo entered the park before I did and sat on a bench some distance from Vinnie. Joey had a cup of Starbucks, but no dog. He pulled one of Brett’s cannolis from a bag and ignored me as I walked by.

“You Kelly?”

Vinnie spoke without looking up from his form.

“Yeah.”

“Sit down.”

Vinnie motioned to a spot beside him. I sat.

“You like dogs?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“I started feeding this thing rat poison two months ago. Look at the bastard. Never looked better.”

Vinnie reached out to kick the dog again but missed.

“A hunting dog. Take him out, kill some ducks. I could live with that. But this thing. It’s embarrassing. My wife loves him, so what are you gonna do?”

“Get a new wife?”

“Now there’s an idea.”

The old man folded up his racing form and reached out to shake my hand. A lot of thin bones. Loose flesh and veins. The grip of an old man, with neither the time nor the need to impress the world, including yours truly.

“Joey tells me you’re a stand-up guy.”

I shrugged. Vinnie had a thermos at his feet. He pulled it up and poured a cup of coffee.

“You want some?”

“No thanks.”

“Joey’s got extra cups, you want any.”

“I’m good, Vinnie.”

He took a small sip and then smacked his lips together two or three times, as if to knock the idea of taste back into them.

“Fucking coffee. Can you smell that?”

I nodded. The coffee looked strong and rich.

“I got no smell, no taste, nothing. This fucking poison they push into my veins. Chemotherapy, my ass. You ever had that?”

I shook my head. Vinnie crooked a finger my way.

“Forty years from now, remember what I tell you. Do yourself a favor. Find yourself a nice bathroom and swallow a bullet.”

Vinnie leaned forward. A gust of wind kicked between us and I caught a whiff of his decay.

“I spend most of my days in the bathroom,” he said. “These assholes wait outside, trying to figure out if I’m still breathing. I take two, three hours in there, work on the racing form. Get a little peace and quiet. You want to eat a bullet, bathroom is as good a spot as any.”

I was trying to figure out if I should thank Vinnie for the free advice but the old man just kept rolling.

“You’re not going to die today, Kelly. Don’t tell me the thought hadn’t crossed your mind. Anyone who comes to meet me, the thought crosses their mind. You’ll go home and you’ll live. Fuck your wife, girlfriend, whatever.”

The old man pulled a blackened cheroot from an inner pocket and took a look around, as if daring anyone to stop him. No one did, so Vinnie DeLuca lit up.

“How do you feel about our district attorney, Mr. O’Leary?”

Vinnie angled his face away and into the sun. The change was subtle, but certain. The death mask was gone. Family business at hand.

“We have some history,” I said.

DeLuca took another small sip of coffee, nodded, just the lightest bit of movement, and crossed one leg over the other. He was wearing black wool pants, blue socks, and black shoes with thick rubber soles.

“Maybe we have a common interest here. In perhaps seeing him at a disadvantage.”

Vinnie motioned to Joey, who had pulled up close. Now he took a seat on the bench.

“You know Joey?” the old man said. “Yes, I know you do. He was approached by a contact from the DA’s office a couple of weeks ago. Gentleman wanted to hire some local muscle. Interesting?”

I nodded. Vinnie nodded.

“Yes, I thought so, too. Someone inside wanted information on a case your partner was working on.”

“Former partner,” I said. “But I’m with you.”

“I told Joey to go along.”

“See what develops,” I said.

“Not a bad thing to know what the DA’s office might be interested in. Especially in our line of work. Joseph?”

Vinnie DeLuca drew on his cigar, then dropped his head to his chin, as if the effort of speaking had exhausted him. Joey picked up the thread.

“I met this guy once. At a hot dog stand in Cicero. Didn’t know the guy. Seemed pretty nervous. Told me it was a private matter. I pushed a little. He gave me the idea it was someone from the DA’s office who was asking.”

Palermo offered up a shrug.

“Maybe he was lying. I don’t know. I was supposed to find out all I could about the old rape Gibbons was working. See if I could locate the case file.”

“And then Gibbons got dead.”

Vinnie lifted his eyes a fraction and rejoined the conversation.

“Not our doing, Mr. Kelly. That’s important.”

“I never even got to Gibbons,” Joey said. “If I had, it wasn’t going to be like that.”

“This district attorney, O’Leary,” DeLuca said. “He ruined your career. I know this because we helped him.”

Vinnie’s eyes shifted across my face but read nothing. He kept talking.

“The matter intrigues me. I think, perhaps, it also intrigues you.”

“What do you think is in the file?” I said.

Vinnie got up to go.

“I don’t know what’s in the file, but I think you have it. Or can get it. Either way, I leave this information with you. If I profit by whatever course of action you take, all the better. If not, so be it.”

“Just so you know, chances are I play it straight.”

“I can live with that.”

“I know, Vinnie. But can I?”

“You’ll live to see me in the grave and many days after, Mr. Kelly. Just remember what I told you.”

“About the file?”

“About the bathroom and the bullet. Come on, Joey. Pick up the cannolis and let’s go.”