Cold Fury

complex of factories on the West Side went on for miles, the smokestacks belching out the afterburn of thousands of conveyor-belt crackers, cookies, doughnuts, and anything else that can be packed with sodium or injected with sugar. Its most famous snack is the Wonder-Fluff Carmel Bar, which my dad says contains so many additives that it causes teeth to fall out. According to Knuckles, besides promoting world obesity, StroBisCo was also a massive money-laundering operation for the Outfit-dirty dollars went in one door, were shaked and baked, and came out another door perfectly clean and untraceable. The VP of Money was also the CEO of StroBisCo. In order to avoid suspicion, he was withholding all payments to Outfit members until the Feds quit poring over false payroll ledgers and doctored expenditure sheets.

“VP of Money,” I said, remembering what I’d learned from the notebook. “Last name Strozzini?”

Knuckles nodded. “My grandfather hated his great-grandfather, and my father hated his grandfather, and I hate him. I haven’t been able to pay my guys in a month, and they’re the ones out there doing the heavy lifting and leg breaking.”

“But doesn’t it make sense? I mean, if the FBI is paying that much attention. .”

“Ah, it’s all BS. Strozzini is holding on to that money just to screw with me. The mutual animosity between the Battuta and Strozzini clans is legendary,” Knuckles said, with something like pride. He went on to say how my dad was scheduled to sit down with both men to resolve the situation, and asked me to urge my dad to fulfill his duty as counselor-at-large and do the deal.

“I can’t. He’s. . not well.”

“He’s on a cruise, ain’t he, kid?”

“He’s not well,” I said quietly, locking onto his rheumy eyes while narrowing mine threateningly, as if I could call up the blue flame at will. “In fact, he’s so ill we had to close the bakery temporarily.”

Knuckles blinked heavily, whispering, “Sorry to hear it. Give him my best.” A moment later and a shade paler, he said, “How about you?”

“Me what?”

“Do what your dad does, what Enzo the Baker used to do,” he said. “Sit down with me and Strozzini, use your gift or whatever it is, and get my guys paid.”

“No, I couldn’t. What if he doesn’t listen to me?”

“He might not. Doing business with broads isn’t exactly an Outfit tradition. On the other hand, you got the Rispoli thing in spades with the eyes.” He shivered.

“I don’t know. .”

“Okeydoke,” he said, revving the Scamp. “Well, good luck to that nonviolent pal of yours. He’ll be fine. Maybe.” He touched his hat and rolled toward the door.

“Wait,” I sighed. “Okay, I’ll do it. But I can’t guarantee anything.”

Knuckles buzzed in reverse and greeted me with a nauseating display of cigar-stained teeth that was, in theory, a smile. “Club Molasses, right? When?”

“Uh. . no, not there. My uncle Buddy is doing some odds and ends at the bakery while it’s closed. You know, painting and, uh. . mopping.”

“Buddy Rispoli,” Knuckles said with a chuckle. “What a schlub.”

After all that had happened, the dismissive way he said it affected me strangely-it actually made me a little sad for my uncle. “Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Listen, kid, no offense, okay? Buddy’s not a bad guy, he’s just not your dad. Frankly, I never seen such a wannabe in all my life. The guy should stick to mixing batter or rolling dough or whatever it is he does. His own pop, Enzo the Baker, didn’t even trust him enough to tell him that Club Molasses existed under his own fat feet!” Knuckles guffawed, and then wiped his eyes. “Naw, the Outfit ain’t for him.”

“Who’s it for?”

“A Rispoli like you. Hell, you’d be perfect if you weren’t a girl,” he said with a wink. “Now then, how about the Bird Cage Club?”

I remembered it from the notebook; it was the other place guarded by Nunzio’s rats. “Fine. Where is it?”

“Come on, kid, I ain’t got time for this. You know where it is.”

“Right. Of course,” I said, making a mental note to read up on it.

We talked details a while longer-what I wanted him to do tomorrow, and whom to do it to, when the meeting with Strozzini would occur-and then Knuckles held out a catcher’s mitt and showed me those teeth again. “So we got a deal?” he said.

“Deal,” I said.

I shook a hand that had busted many bones over the decades.

Those bones were smaller pieces of shattered lives.

I had just agreed to be a part of that sick process, and it broke my heart.

19

Everyone has a talent, even the most seemingly untalented person, even if it’s something that other people wouldn’t consider particularly entertaining or useful, like performing an entire opera on a kazoo or flipping an omelet blindfolded.

My sometimes-friend Gina’s talent is gossip.

The time had come to deploy the full power of her awesome gift.

I’d asked Doug to wait twenty-four hours until he did anything crazy like hurting himself, and the time was almost up. When the bell rang at the end of first period, I was out the classroom door and down the hallway before it filled with slow-moving loud-talkers, waiting at Gina’s locker. I’d made sure to conceal my bruises beneath makeup so her full attention was on what I was about to tell her. Gina’s place in the Fep Prep firmament-Gossip Queen-makes her the be-all, end-all of the buzz, dish, and dirt, and I had a juicy morsel now that was (literally) custom made for her.

When she saw me, her incredible gossip ESP kicked in and she said, “Let me guess. Max is going to fight Billy Shniper.”

I looked around carefully and then stared at her. “No,” I said. “Doug is.”

There are few things as sweet as seeing surprise register on Gina’s face. Watching her process unexpected information is like watching a great chef experience a new flavor. “When? Where?” she said hungrily. “More importantly. . how?”

“Don’t fool yourself,” I said. “Doug has moves.”

“Yeah, one toward a bag of Munchitos, the other toward a remote control. Seriously, Sara Jane, is this really going to happen?”

I looked around again, and said, “I swear. Today, right after school. Under the El tracks, behind Bump ‘N’ Grind. And Gina?”

“Yeah?”

“Doug’s a friend of mine, so don’t tell anyone, okay? He said that after he breaks Billy’s nose. .”

“He said that?”

“And after he makes Billy get down on his knees and apologize like the little bitch that he is. .”

“Doug said that?”

“Then he just wants to put this whole silly thing behind him and get back to concentrating on his girlfriend. The model. Who lives in Canada.” There, I thought, looking at Gina’s O-mouth, that should do it.

It did it all right.

By last period, the tidbit had spread from kid to kid like flu in a preschool.

Everyone seemed to know about it except Doug, who never talked to anyone.

When the last bell rang, the entire student body flooded out the doors and headed for the grassy patch beneath the El. I’d made a plan with Doug to get an espresso at Bump ‘N’ Grind after school, and he was waiting for me on the sidewalk, confused at the back pats and “good lucks” being showered on him by kids he didn’t know