“So, how do we play this?” Ed asks.
I haven’t got a clue, but I think I know what I have to do next. “Papa needs to know. You guys decide what needs to be done, and we’ll do it.”
Ed appears skeptical. “You think Francesco will just go along with whatever we tell him to do?”
“Normally, I’d say no, but I’m not giving him a choice,” I reply.
“He’s probably gonna be pissed that you told us this story at all,” Ed counters. “I doubt he’ll be in any mood to play along.”
I’ve been thinking this through as we’ve talked, and my nonnegotiable bottom line is already clear. “Papa’s got a choice. He either does whatever you say needs to be done, or Brittany and I are out of here.”
“Good call,” Plummer says.
Ed nods. “Agreed.”
Papa can rant and play the stern patriarch all he wants, but Brittany’s safety comes first. I glance down at the burgers. “Let’s go eat before these things congeal. Then I’ll talk to Papa, and we’ll go from there.”
“Sounds good,” Ed says. Plummer agrees.
I walk Papa to his bedroom after we eat and bring him up to speed. He’s pissed at me for spilling the beans to Ed and Jake. I let him rant for thirty seconds and then put my foot down. “We’re going to do whatever Ed and Jake suggest.”
My father’s face morphs into that of the stern father of my youth. “You no tell me what to do, Anthony.”
I raise a hand to cut him off. “Here’s the deal, Papa. It’s either that, or I take Brittany somewhere safe. Tonight.” That gets his attention. “Let’s go. Jake and Ed are waiting in the backyard to talk with us.”
My father blows out a long, lingering breath that seems to deflate him a little, then nods and gets to his feet.
“Boy talk,” I tell Brittany glibly as we pass through the kitchen on our way to the backyard. “Back in a few minutes.”
Plummer and Ed are in quiet conversation with their heads close together when Papa and I emerge from the house. Their eyes track from my father to me in silent question.
“Papa’s on board,” I announce.
“What we do?” Papa asks.
“We’re having a little disagreement about that,” Ed says, getting the jump on Plummer, who appears annoyed to be beaten to the punch. “I suspect you’re gonna agree with my plan, Francesco.”
“Tell me this plan,” Papa orders him.
“We’ve got a little group who call ourselves the fossils,” Ed says. “We’re a bunch of retired old cops who sometimes dust ourselves off to take on a security job. I’ll talk to a few of the guys tonight. Hell, this will be a little welcome excitement for the old bastards. Checkers, darts, and dominoes can only fill so many hours in a day. We’ll have guys here round the clock starting tomorrow morning while Jake tries to figure things out.”
Plummer shakes his head and turns to me. “I’d sooner see you folks go somewhere for a week or two while I investigate.”
“Nah, we can manage things here,” Ed says confidently.
Plummer sighs. He’s skeptical. Worried. Should I be?
“I no run away!” Papa proclaims in an outburst of machismo.
Plummer meets my eye. “Sounds like we’ll have to dynamite Francesco’s ass out of here if we want him to go.”
I spread my hands and suggest, “Maybe we should.”
“I no go!” Papa reiterates.
Ed, damn him, reassures Papa that he and the fossils can handle things.
Plummer shuffles close and whispers, “I’ll expedite things, Tony—put out more feelers tonight to try to get to the bottom of this. If the threat seems real, we need to get your asses out of this house until we neutralize whoever the hell is gunning for Francesco.”
“Agreed.”
And so, against our better judgment, we surrender to Papa’s and Ed’s display of aging testosterone. For now.
The detectives stick around for dessert. I feel a little naked after they depart. Ed’s fossils won’t be here until tomorrow, which leaves only me to protect Brittany and Papa. The gun Papa purchased and used last year is long gone, trashed after he was acquitted of murder in the shooting it was used in. Looks as if I’ll be staying up tonight with only 911 on speed dial to defend us.
Chapter Five
I pull my car to the curb in front of Pat O’Toole’s Humboldt Park home just over a week later. Pat’s an old high school classmate who re-entered my life in the midst of last year’s turmoil. She’s a local reporter for the Chicago Tribune newspaper. Pat had been steadfast throughout Papa’s ordeal, even during a period when we had a falling-out. Our victory in the battle over the redevelopment plan for Liberty Street owed a great deal to her reporting. After a few bumps along the way, we’ve settled into a comfortable friendship with undertones of more.
Pat suggested going for a little run in the park, so I’m decked out in a pair of fraying royal blue cotton shorts, a graying Marquette University T-shirt, and a pair of severely scuffed Nike cross-trainers—an outfit that indicates how little I get out to jog, let alone run. She wants to discuss her concerns about our upcoming lunch meeting with an aviation journalist who contacted me about the Windy City crash. She meets me at the door.
“All good on the home front?” she asks. Pat knows that Ed Stankowski has stepped up Papa’s security but doesn’t know the details.
“Ed and a couple of buddies are on duty,” I reply. “So far, so good.”
Pat holds the door open and lets me in, then sits me at the breakfast counter with a sunshine yellow, smiley-face mug of steaming coffee. The mouth-watering aroma of bacon lingers in the air. Alas, I’ve come too late to partake.
“Tell me a little more about Stankowski,” she says.
“Ed’s an old detective who was pensioned off after he was shot in the leg during a domestic dispute. He says he’s too young to call it a day, so he keeps his
