A Quiet Vendetta

Don Calligaris leaned back in his chair. ‘I left New York for a reason,’ he said. ‘I am not going to tell you the reason because it is not important now, but the fact of the matter is that something that should have been done was not done and it caused some trouble for the family. In a way I am lucky to be alive… but then I never believed in luck. I am alive because I am valuable, because I am a made man, and once you are made there is no way you can be removed without the express permission of the head of the family. Tony Ducks, Don Corallo, did not want me out of the family, but he sent me here to make things good, to pay my dues.’ Don Calligaris looked away for a moment, and then looked back at me. ‘Sometimes we all arrive at a point where we have to make something good, where we have to pay the dues, you know. Anyway, this thing, this thing with the Irish family, we will make this work and I will have paid my dues, I will have served my time in the wilderness if you like. You say you can do this then I need you to do it. I need you to carry through with your word and the word of the family and make this happen. If you do this then I will owe you my life in a way, and there will come a time when you need something from me and I will make it happen. You understand, Ernesto?’

‘Yes, I understand, and I will make this happen, and the Irish family will keep the northside, and you will be able to go home.’

Don Calligaris rose and stretched out his arms. I rose also and he hugged me tight.

‘You do this, and in my eyes you will be a made man, Ernesto Perez, crazy Cuban motherfucker or not.’

He laughed. I laughed also.

I left after a little while, and even though I would now have to dedicate myself to ruining someone’s reputation, to ruining someone’s life more than likely, there was a sense of exhilaration in my heart. I did not have to kill anyone. That was the reason I had given my word. I would never have spoken such a thing, would never have told Don Calligaris my reason, but the fact of the matter was that I wanted to do this, to make this thing right, because I would walk away without any more blood on my hands.

That night I slept soundly. I did not dream. I did not fear for the safety of my family. And when I rose the next morning even Angelina noticed a difference in my manner.

‘Things went well yesterday?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Angelina, they went well.’

‘You have some work to do?’

‘Yes, there is some work to do.’

‘But it is safe,’ she said matter-of-factly.

‘Yes, it is safe… you needn’t worry for yourself or the children.’

‘And you? Need I worry for you, Ernesto?’

‘No, nor for me. I have some things to do but it is business that can be done with words. You understand?’

‘I understand.’

She did not mention it again; she asked me no more questions. The subject was closed, and I sensed in her attitude a deep relief and confidence that everything, just everything, was going to be alright. What she could never know, and never hope to understand, was the significance of this situation for me. I would perform an action, I would resolve this matter, and the simple truth was that no-one would die. I, Ernesto Cabrera Perez, would go out to fix something and kill no-one.

It seemed that Gerry McGowan had been right, I watched the comings and goings of David Hackley for the better part of a week and he seemed the model American citizen. I hated him for it. I had given my word. I had little more than two weeks, and before five days had passed I wondered what in fuck’s name I was gonna do.

I remembered then something Don Ceriano had told me many years before, about heading out for vengeance and digging two graves.

This matter was not one of vengeance, but one of territory, and with the word of the family and Don Calligaris’s position in the balance, I could not do anything but make this work. If David Hackley did not possess an Achilles heel, then perhaps his son did.

I switched my attention to the young man. I staked out his office and his apartment. I watched him leave his work late at night and go home. I believed him for a while to be a younger version of his father, and there seemed to be nothing to identify any weak point in his life.

It was the beginning of December. I sat in my car a half block away from the exit of the apartment building where James Hackley lived, and I was set to start up the engine and go home when the door opened and the man himself appeared. He was dressed for the weather in a long overcoat, a scarf and gloves, and he hurried across the street to where his car was parked and climbed in.

I followed him a good two miles downtown, through the less wealthy areas of the city to the edge of the northside. Here he slowed, stopped on Machin Street, and after spending a few moments looking for something in his car he climbed out and started down the street. I followed him on foot a good fifteen yards behind, ever alert for the moment he would turn and glance back over his shoulder. He did not, and I watched as he crossed at the junction and entered at the side door of a porn cinema on Penn Street. He was in the Cicero Gang’s territory, right there in the heart of the area his own father was planning to demolish, and he was frequenting one of the cinemas more than likely owned by Kyle Brennan. Irony put a smile on my face. It did not give me what I wanted – hell, half of America’s model citizens went to porn shows and strip clubs, and there wasn’t a thing in the world that could be considered illegal about it, but it was something, it was a start, and a start, however small, was better than nothing at all.

I went into the cinema after him. I walked to the counter and asked after the young man that had just entered.

‘And what the fuck business is it of yours?’ an overweight greasy-vested man behind the counter said.

‘Important business,’ I said. ‘I’m here on behalf of Gerry McGowan, and I need your assistance.’

‘Oh shit,’ the man said. ‘Oh shit, I’m sorry, mister… I didn’t know Mr McGowan was sending anyone down here tonight. I think we’re all paid up… in fact I’m sure we are… let me call the boss down and you can have a word with him. Hell, what the fuck am I thinking? Come with me, come through here and up the stairs and you can speak with him yourself.’

I followed the overweight guy as he heaved his vast girth up a narrow flight of stairs. We turned right at the top, and he knocked on a door.

‘Come!’ Someone shouted from within.

The fat guy went in. I followed him. We stood in a small but neatly decorated office, plain walls, a wide mahogany desk, behind it a smartly-dressed man with the same dark hair and bright eyes as Daniel Ryan.

‘Julie, what the fuck is this?’ the man behind the desk said. ‘I’m busy up here… you should be on the desk downstairs making sure those asshole kids don’t sneak in without payin’.’

‘Someone here,’ the fat guy said. ‘Someone from Mr McGowan.’

I stepped around Julie and faced the man behind the desk. He smiled. He came around and reached out his hand. ‘Hey, how goes it there?’ he said. ‘Name’s Michael Doyle… what can we do for you and Mr McGowan?’

‘I told him we were all paid up, Mr Doyle… soon as he said he was from Mr McGowan I told him we were all paid up,’ the fat guy said, nervousness evident in his voice.

‘Okay Julie, okay… you don’t mind yourself with this, you go on back down and tend to the desk, okay?’

‘Okay Mr Doyle,’ Julie said, and worked his width out through the doorway and thundered down the stairs.

‘Not so easy to find good help these days, eh?’ Michael Doyle said. He indicated a chair other side of the desk and asked me to sit down. I did so, and Doyle resumed his chair opposite. ‘So what can we be doin’ for you an’ Mr McGowan?’ he asked.

‘You have a customer here, a man by the name of James Hackley.’

Doyle shrugged. ‘Christ, I wouldn’t know… sure as hell ain’t my hobby to go associatin’ with the people that come here to watch this stuff.’

‘He is the son of a very important Chicago real estate developer called David Hackley. Mr McGowan needs your help to make something go away, and there’s a good possibility it may involve putting his son in a somewhat embarrassing position.’

Doyle laughed. ‘Well, I’d consider being found with your pants round your ankles in a joint like this somewhat embarrassing.’

I shook my head. ‘Something a little closer to the bone,’ I said.