The car was running. The windows were squeezed tight and tinted black. Illegal, but not unusual. Hyde Park was a hermetically sealed world of culture and privilege, with the University of Chicago its beating heart. The blue blood, however, didn’t travel very far. A mile or two west, the university’s list of Nobel laureates didn’t mean a damn thing. Gangs ran the show. They routinely shot people for fun and tinted their windows because they felt like it. Ask too many questions about the latter, and you ran a good chance of winding up among the ranks of the former. I turned back from the window. Rita reached for a leather briefcase by her feet.
“I have the names of some of the companies.” She zipped open the case and pulled out a list. “They’re all nobodies. Small one- or two-person outfits with no experience and none of the clout that usually goes with this kind of stuff.”
I took a quick look at the names. “Campaign contributions?”
“Not a dime to the mayor. Or anybody else. Nothing I can see, anyway.”
“So they’re paying off Rissman directly?”
“Could be.”
“How big are the contracts?”
“They’re not huge, but that’s not the point.”
I scanned the list again. “And you think these vendors all come back to one person?”
“Or persons. But I don’t know how and, more important, who.”
I handed her back the list. “Does it matter? You have Rissman. He’s the public official. Run the story on him. Shine the light and watch the rats scatter.”
Rita shook her head.
“You think it might go higher?”
She angled her face away and didn’t respond. I looked out at the street again. The Buick was still there, but the window was rolled down. The driver sat in profile, long sallow face, dark sunglasses up on his forehead, a cigarette dangling in one hand. He wasn’t looking our way, but it didn’t matter.
“Excuse me a second.” I went to the front of the shop, paid the bill, and asked the woman at the register if she had a roll of quarters. She had two. I slipped out the back of the shop and crept around the block. The Buick was still idling, window still down, driver still smoking. I palmed both rolls of quarters in my right hand, crossed the street, and approached the car from the front. Ten yards short of the hood, I stopped and shivered in the cold. I blew into cupped hands and looked past the Buick for a taxi. The driver’s eyes flicked up and over me. Then he returned to staring intently at his side mirror and Rita, still in the booth across the street. I walked the last ten yards, left hand trailing across the Buick’s flank, right fist closed. The driver looked up again.
“How you doing?” I said.
He raised his chin, but didn’t respond. The driver didn’t recognize me. But I knew him.
“I’m looking for a cab,” I said and leaned in, left hand gripping the window frame, shoulders turning, right fist coming up and across. The punch was short, maybe eight inches, and landed flush on the point of his jaw. The body went limp, one hand sliding off the steering wheel and falling awkwardly in his lap. The guy was skinny, mid-thirties, with a bad complexion and worse teeth. I pushed him into the passenger’s seat, climbed behind the wheel, and checked for a weapon. He wasn’t carrying, but there was a. 40-cal in the glovie. I rolled up the window, locked the doors, and pulled out my cell. Rita picked up on the first ring.
“I’m in the car across the street.”
Her head swiveled, phone to ear, eyes fastened on the Buick.
“I paid the check. Come on over and get in the back.”
She stood up stiffly, looked around the shop twice, and left. I popped open the locks and she got in.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“This guy here.” I nodded to the passenger’s seat. “He works for Vinny DeLuca.”
I checked the rearview mirror and saw the tightening around her mouth.
“He’s not a hitter,” I said. “At least, I don’t think so. DeLuca probably has him tailing you until they figure out what to do. Now you want to tell me who Rissman is doing business with? Or you want me to fill in the blanks?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Vinny DeLuca doesn’t joke around, Rita. Whatever you’re doing, it’s got his attention. And that ain’t good.”
“You think the Outfit’s going to kill me? Seriously?”
“I think people have accidents.”
“This is assault, Michael.”
She made a move to get out of the car. I locked the doors again. Then I went through my pal’s pockets and found his cell phone. I hit REDIAL and waited. A voice I recognized answered.
“Johnny Apple, how are you?”
“Michael Kelly?”
“Is your boss there?”
“What are you doing with Chili’s phone?”
I looked over at Chili. “Is that his name? I remembered the face. One of those guys who hangs around on the fringes, drinking coffee and moving the furniture around every couple of minutes. You know those guys, Johnny. Fuck, you are one.”
“What are you doing with his phone?”
“Let me talk to DeLuca.”
“He’s not here.”
“Fine. I’ll keep the phone. Tell him to call me when he gets a minute.”
A pause. Chicago’s crime boss came on the line. “Fucking pain, deep in my balls.”
“Listen, Vinny. Your boy here is tailing Rita Alvarez. I think I know why. And I don’t like it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kelly. And since when do I give a fuck what you like?”
“You think that makes sense, Vinny?”
No answer.
“She’s a friend.” I glanced in the rearview mirror at Rita, who looked a little green around the gills. “Besides, I think we might have some common ground.”
“Business is business, Kelly.”
“I understand that.”
“Maybe your friends don’t.”
“She does.” Another look at Rita, who definitely looked like she might lose her breakfast all over the gangster’s upholstery. “Let’s talk.”
More silence.
“I can guarantee my friend does nothing until we sit down.”
“At my age, quiet’s a blessing. You keep it that way, and maybe we can talk.”
“Until then you call these guys off.”
“Give my man back his cell phone.”
I looked over at the passenger’s seat. “He’s not available right now.”
A sigh. “Fine. Leave him there. We’ll be in touch.”
“Bye, Vinny.”
He cut the line. I flipped the phone shut and dropped it to the floor.
“Take a look at this guy,” I said.
“I have.”
“Good. Now let’s get out of here.”
We slipped out of the car, got into hers, and drove.
“Where to?” she said.
“Just cruise the neighborhood.”
“What did you hit him with?”
I showed her the rolls. “Quarters, for when you only get one punch. Listen, you need to back off this thing. At least until we can talk to DeLuca.”
“You think I’m going to negotiate a story with Vinny DeLuca?”
