I slid out onto the street, grateful to be out of the car.
Nunzio held open the door to the café, Guido staying behind me. I walked in, the place mostly in half-shadow. All the blinds were pulled slightly to obscure vision from the street. The better to protect from drive-bys. The Don’s gotta stay safe, after all.
I was led into a darkened back corner, where the Don was sitting. He had an espresso in front of him, the newspaper open in front of his face and just a trail of cigar smoke curling above the pages.
“Indro,” he said, without dropping the paper or looking at me at all. “Thanks so much for joining me today.”
“Don Maloik,” I said, bowing my head slightly, knowing my place, even if he couldn’t see me. “A pleasure. I’m grateful for the invitation.”
“I’m sure you are. Boys, get yourselves a snack,” he said and the brothers nodded and moved off to the counter, where they both ordered a slice of pie. And started to eat it like they were synchronized.
“Take a seat, Indro,” the Don said and I did, right across from him. I sat there for a moment, quietly. Hands on the table. I knew the drill.
I waited until he was done with the paper and then he folded it and put it down in front of him.
“Fuckin’ White Sox, am I right, Indro? Talk about a useless ball club. Why do we root for that mess of a team?”
I sat for a moment, unsure, then realized it was a real question.
“‘Cause they’re our team, Don Maloik. That’s why.”
That answer seemed to satisfy him and he nodded.
“Well said, Indro. that’s right. Our team. And supporting our team is the duty of all of us. Wouldn’t you say?”
Suddenly, I didn’t think we were talking about baseball anymore.
“Couldn’t agree with you more, sir.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re not a dummy, Indro. A smart boy. I’ve always thought so. Haven’t I, Flavio?” the Don said, calling out over his shoulder to a table back and to his right. My older brother was sitting there, in the dark and the shadows.
“Flavio,” I said. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Little brother,” he said quietly, giving me a look to play it cool.
“So let’s be plain, Indro,” the Don said, “since you’re a smart kid. Let’s be plain. Do I need to worry about you in this trial coming up? Do I need to worry you’re not going to support your team?”
“Don Maloik—” Flavio began.
“No, Flavio. I’m talking to your brother now.”
I took a breath and nodded purposely.
“I’ve hired the best criminal defense lawyer in the city, Don Maloik. She’s gonna help me beat this rap. And I’m gonna walk.”
The Don looked at me through a haze of blue smoke, taking a long drag of his cigar.
“And if she doesn’t?” he said simply.
I looked over to Flavio, who gave me the tiniest of nods.
“Then I do my time. Like a man. Keep my mouth shut. Protect the family.”
Don Maloik looked at me a moment and then over to Flavio.
“Don, you can count on Indro. He’s always been a good earner, he does his work and keeps quiet. It would be a drain on our income if we bench him right now.”
Maloik sat still for a moment, twirling the cigar in his hands, and then put it down.
“Then that’s the play. But Indro, what happens when you don’t do right by your team, your manager?”
I swallowed hard.
“You get cut, Don Maloik.”
“That’s right. And you vanish. Out in the sticks somewhere, playing for a club ain’t nobody heard of. Remember that.”
He lifted up his paper again. And the meeting was over.
Chapter Nine
Sophie
I trudged through the snow falling on the city, my breaths frozen puffs before my face. This was not how I was expecting my day to go.
A known mobster wanting me to defend him from murder charges while he blackmails me into his defense. Not exactly the scenario I had pictured when I graduated from law school. But here I was.
Cars crawled past me on the street, leaving behind dirty tracks in their wake. People hustled by, clutching their heavy winter coats about them. That’s one thing about Chicago, we all obsess over the weather report. Due to the proximity of Lake Michigan, Chicago’s weather changes on a dime.
I made my way to the old St. Patrick’s Church on West Adams Street, hoping for shelter and a little guidance. Which, I supposed, is what everyone wants every time they enter a church anywhere.
The word was, the only witness to Indro’s crime was a Catholic priest, one named Glen Gilberti. I wasn’t able to track him down through the usual resources, but I had an old friend stationed at St. Pat’s. I thought maybe he could help me out.
The church stood silent and still like a monolith in the falling snow. The big wooden doors swung open easily as I pulled them back and entered the vestibule of the church. A familiar scent washed into my nostrils, a mixture of incense, Murphy Oil Soap and pine needles. I don’t know how many times I’ve breathed in that particular combination.
My grandmother used to bring me to St. Pat’s when I was a kid and stayed with her for a weekend. She was a devout woman, my Nannie, and she attended Mass every Sunday like clockwork. I don’t think she ever meissed a single service, not that I could remember. Even when she was sick and Ol’ Man Death was scratching at the door, she would muster her forces and get to the church on time.
As I walked in, a flood of memories came back to me, things I hadn’t thought of in years. How the ceiling loomed over you, like a dark cloud. I remembered being a kid and staring up there, wondering how they cleaned it. Wondering if people had fallen from that stony height.
I would kneel on the hassock and chew on the wood of the pew in front of me, scraping
