Cold Fury

ultimate power.”

“What does that mean? Ultimate power?”

“I don’t know!” he cried. “Anthony was telling my pop he wanted nothing to do with it! But whatever it was, I wanted it! Oh God, I wanted it so badly!”

“So badly that you turned on us, even though we loved you,” I said. “You took over our home. You tried to take over our lives.”

Uncle Buddy stared with his mouth open and then said softly, “I wanted what Anthony has. Not just a family and a home, but power. . what you have. . the ghiaccio furioso. I thought the notebook would. . that maybe it could. .” And he paused, licking at his dry lips. I let him go and he slumped back, whispering, “I still want it.”

“What about Detective Smelt?” I said. “What about the freak in the ski mask?”

“I don’t know about any cop or freak. I’m the only freak I know.” Something clicked in his muddled mind, and he said, “Sara Jane. . are you in danger?”

It was the first time I laughed in weeks.

The sound of it rolling from my mouth was strange to me.

There was no joy in it, only tired irony.

I wiped at my eyes and looked around the kitchen at filthy dishes, scummy counters, and molding food. The line of blood where Harry dragged himself into the basement was still there, dried brown on the tile floor. My uncle, who had once been my buddy but was now my personal Judas, took a swig of vodka and said, “Whoever they are, it must have been my pop’s death that brought them out of the woodwork.”

It was the first relevant insight he had. “Go on,” I said.

“That means they must have Outfit connections. My pop was ‘Enzo the Baker,’ ‘Boss,’ and ‘Biscotto’ to the mob, but to the rest of the world he was just a little Italian pastry maker down the block.”

Following his line of thought, I said, “Only someone who knew Grandpa was counselor-at-large would have known my dad was next in line, and that he would inherit the notebook.”

“Next in line, yeah. Notebook, I’m not so sure,” he said. “I didn’t even know it existed until I overheard Pop talking about it. I finally confronted your dad. .”

“At Grandpa’s funeral,” I said, remembering my dad dropping Uncle Buddy with a lightning left hook.

He rubbed his jaw absently. “Your dad admitted it existed. He told me Nunzio started it, Pop continued it, Anthony added to it, and that it was a Rispoli family secret, full of secrets. He was clear that no one else in the Outfit knows about it.”

“Unless someone does,” I said. “Who would it be, if someone did?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Like I said before, I don’t know anything.”

“Uncle Buddy, look at me,” I said, and when he did, he winced in pain but was unable to turn away. “Who would it be?”

“I. . I don’t know,” he said. “Please believe me!”

Actually, I did. As he gaped up at me, I saw Uncle Buddy for what he was-a two-bit schemer who, through bitter jealousy, had helped tear my family apart. I was gripped by a pity that was equal to my anger, and I pushed him away, taking a final look around. “I’m leaving now. Either clean this place up or burn it down.”

“No, wait!” he said, lunging for me, grabbing at my arm. “I can help you, Sara Jane! Give me the notebook! If that’s what they’re after, I’ll be the target! Please!”

“Let go, Uncle Buddy,” I said, trying to pull away.

“Give it to me, goddamn it!” he shouted, tightening his grip and rising from the chair. “I want it! I need it! It’s my goddamn turn! It’s my-” And before he could tell me what else was his, I spun and cracked the gun against the side of his skull.

Uncle Buddy sat heavily in the chair and went face-first into his Froot Loops.

I lifted his head out of the bowl so he wouldn’t drown in sticky milk.

I hate him and hope I never see him again, but after all, he is my uncle.

21

So now I knew that Detective Smelt and Ski Mask Guy were somehow Outfit connected. But I also knew (with Uncle Buddy as a prime example) that a connection doesn’t make a person part of the Outfit.

As counselor-at-large, I was learning that, besides being a violent criminal organization, the Outfit was also a gossip factory that put Gina Pettagola to shame. The most hardened thugs whispered cattily about one another and to one another like a bunch of gun-toting grandmothers. If the people that mattered within the Outfit knew what Detective Smelt and Ski Mask Guy knew-that my family was gone-there’s no way the word wouldn’t have gotten around and that I, a Rispoli, would have been allowed to serve as counselor-at-large, much less exist with legs unbroken, or worse. By now, I was chillingly aware of what happened to suspected rats and their suspected rat children. Whatever knowledge or inside information that Smelt and Ski Mask Guy had gained, whatever their ultimate goal, they were not operating inside the organization. What I didn’t know was how that connection had been made; how did they learn about the existence of the notebook?

And then I faced another equally puzzling question.

What exactly does one wear to a Mafia sit-down?

I went conservative in all black-skirt, blouse, boots-and at ten until noon on an overcast Saturday stood outside an ancient skyscraper.

CURRENCY EXCHANGE BUILDING was etched in stone over the entrance, with the year it was built, 1926.

It was tall, thin, sooty, and smudged, its general neglect indicating that no currency had been exchanged there in a very long time.

For fine arts class at Fep Prep, we took a tour of architecturally significant buildings in the Loop and learned that Chicago was the birthplace of the skyscraper. Structural steel allowed buildings to climb high into the sky, just as the Currency Exchange Building did, far beyond the El tracks that nearly touched the old building’s filthy facade. Many old Chicago structures had been renovated to perfection, but the one I stared at now seemed to have been forgotten. Maybe it was the building’s location-jammed into a crowded and not beautiful stretch of Wells Street between Washington and Madison with the train rumbling past, fat purple pigeons pecking at litter, and people rushing by without even seeing it. And then I realized that was the point-it was right there, hiding in plain sight-and I noticed something odd. The address of the building on one side was Forty-Three North Wells and the address on the other side was Forty-Five North Wells, but the Currency Exchange Building, squeezed between them, had no address at all.

Yep, I thought, this has got to be the place.

I remembered the instruction to avoid the main entrance and enter through an adjoining barbershop. It must have been an out-of-date entry in the notebook; the business next door was a shabby carryout with a pigeon- crapped awning that read PHUN HO-TO GO! I entered a cramped space with a bored- looking guy in a greasy apron staring at something Asian on TV. I tried the women’s room door but it was locked, so I approached the counter.

“Excuse me,” I said. “May I use the restroom?”

Without looking away from the TV, the guy threw a thumb over his shoulder.

A sign tacked to the wall read NO PAY. NO PEE.

A few minutes later I was in possession of a bag of egg rolls and a key. I paused, remembering being chased by cops at the North Avenue Beach House, and how I would’ve been screwed if I had chosen the women’s shower. It didn’t seem to have occurred to Joe Little, the inventor of the Capone Doors, that a woman would ever need to use one. The counter guy wasn’t watching, so I slipped into the men’s, which contained a sink and an old-time porcelain urinal. I looked closely at its faded logo-Chicago Hygienic Inc.-with the C in “Chicago” slightly raised. I wasn’t thrilled about touching it, so I used a paper towel, gave it a push, and the porcelain pissoire slid smoothly sideways, revealing a dimly lit alcove. I stepped inside,