Butcher's Road (45 page)

“It won’t change anything,” Hayes said.

“His pocket,” Mr. Ross said from behind him.

Hayes had noticed Musante’s hand sliding into the pocket of his trousers, but his attention was fixed on the blade, knowing that once it opened the man’s neck the Galenus Rose would be, if only for a brief time, out of their reach. Apparently, that was exactly what Musante had been hoping for.

From the pocket, Mr. Musante drew a familiar object, a disk only slightly larger than a half-dollar piece, intricately etched and weathered by time. Hayes cocked his arm to launch the iron rod at the man, but Musante moved too fast. With a snap of his wrist, Musante threw the disk into the air. It shattered, broke into thousands of tiny, glittering flecks. Light blinded Hayes momentarily and then it soothed him. At turns brilliant and then grim, the flickering chiaroscuro stunned him and then it entranced him. Moments of absolute serenity gave way to hard-edged dread and then returned again, lulling him as he stood transfixed and unable to move before the shimmering display.

• • •

Lonnie Musante sighed with relief and stepped away from the scene in his living room. Mr. Hayes and his lard-assed buddy wouldn’t be bothering him again anytime soon. In fact, the Mesmer Coin could keep those ass-wipes occupied for hours, days even if the circumstances were favorable. They could die on their feet. Dehydrate and starve while watching the pretty metal twinkle before their eyes.

No skin off his ass.

That wasn’t likely to happen though. No doubt they’d cleared their little plan with 213 House, so if Hayes didn’t check back in soon enough another squad of Alchemi bastards would drop on his head like a weak ceiling. Lonnie considered the knife in his hand, thought about running it ear-to-ear on Hayes and then the fat one, but Lonnie didn’t have the belly for wet work. Never had. No doubt he would have gone a lot further in the Chicago syndicate if he could have stomached a hit or two, but that wasn’t his way. He didn’t care if people died. He just didn’t need to see it.

Besides, what he’d accomplished was so much better. Sweeter. It was the bee’s fucking knees. He’d made fools of them all: Marco Impelliteri’s gang, the Chicago death machine; and the Alchemi with their pompous, ridiculous devotion to squirreling away tools and weapons, instead of using those things the way they’d been intended. Marco had the right idea. He sure did, but Lonnie had learned to hate the piece of shit. He’d rather melt everything down than let the gangster get his hands on a single piece of the living steel.

Musante slid his knife back into the belt of his trousers. He went to the window and peered at the unbroken snow behind his house, searched the tree line for signs of additional Alchemi intruders. Normally, the Alchemi travelled in packs of two, so he’d likely covered his ass by mesmerizing the two in his living room, but maybe he’d warranted more attention. The Galenus Rose wasn’t some prop in a parlor trick.

He squinted through the glass, thinking he saw a shape hiding behind a balsam tree. He leaned in close.

Then an arm wrapped around his throat, and another slid around his side and quickly yanked upward, immobilizing Lonnie’s right arm. In seconds he felt the pressure of a stone-solid biceps pressing against the side of his neck. He struggled, but the man behind him had too much strength. The arm around his neck tightened, and the snowy field and the tree line began to pulse as if in respiration. The edges of his vision lost focus. His chest heaved for breath until it felt like a pair of fists beat at his ribcage from the inside. Then the white field raced toward him, filled his vision until it blinded him, leaving the world black and silent and motionless.

During the two weeks following his return from New Orleans, Roger Lennon’s life had returned to normal, which was to say, the tedium had returned. Edie and the girls were home, and Edie was already pressing him to follow through on his promise of a Florida vacation. The talk around the station had moved away from Curt Conrad, except for the occasional idiot who tried to engage Lennon in an inspirational story about his late partner, as if Lennon might actively want to keep the man’s memory alive instead of forgetting him like a bad meal. His current caseload was light. It kept him busy during office hours, but it left him plenty of time to wonder about Butch Cardinal.

He hoped the wrestler was taking his advice, moving on and starting a new life in a town where they’d never be able to dredge up his past. The guy deserved a little peace and quiet.

At his desk in the station, Lennon sipped from his coffee and gazed across the room, where Sally, one of the switchboard operators, was delivering a telegram to Officer Evanston. Sally wore a bright red dress with a sprig of pine pinned to the lapel.

The holidays had snuck up on Lennon. With everything else on his mind, he’d forgotten about Christmas until that morning, when Edie had insisted he bring home a “Nice, full tree.” Of course, he’d seen the decorations in the windows of the downtown stores and the radio played little but cheerful holiday tunes, but for some reason he’d taken none of it personally, as if it were a festival for strangers, a holy night for a religion he didn’t practice. Edie had bought the girls’ gifts. She’d managed the wrapping and decorating the house, which she’d been frantic over when Lennon had left for work that morning. None of it had felt quite real until Edie’s request for a tree, soon followed by the sudden, shocking realization that he hadn’t bought his wife’s gift yet. He knew he could take a long lunch to fight similar procrastinators at Marshall Field’s, but he had no idea what Edie might want. Surely she’d dropped hints, but Lennon hadn’t been of the mind to catch them.

He thought about jewelry, clothing, and appliances—ran a list through his head to see if he could remember Edie having mentioned any specific want, but there was nothing but a hole where that kind of information should have resided.

Sally appeared in his doorway. She wasn’t a beautiful woman, hardly pretty at all. Her face was severe, with thin lips and razor sharp cheekbones that made her seem always in a state of disapproval. Today she’d gone heavy on the rouge and the slashes of red on her cheeks looked like wounds. But despite her harsh appearance she was a good gal. Pleasant. Quiet. Quick with a laugh.

Lennon experienced a brief dislocation. Suddenly, Molly Sullivan was on his mind; Molly who looked soft and sweet, but was as hard as nails. He wondered how she was holding up since her father’s death and even thought to pay her a visit, perhaps before the new year. This notion was easy enough to dismiss. He couldn’t even pretend that she’d welcome his company; he was part of the machine, and her father’s blood had helped grease its gears.

“A letter for you,” Sally said. Her voice was bright and cheerful, a good switchboard voice. She handed him an envelope with his name scrawled in large letters across its face. Lennon didn’t recognize the handwriting, but notes and cards came in droves during the holidays. “Merry Christmas,” she said, giving him a little wave and spinning on her heels.

He thanked her and returned the sentiment. Then Lennon opened the envelope and withdrew a stiff sheet of paper:

Detective Lennon,

Thank you for what you tried to do for me in New Orleans, but I can’t take your advice. I’m back in Chicago to finish this business. I have a request, and I suggest you carry it out and then remove yourself from this matter. Stay in your home tonight and enjoy the fire. I can’t ask any more of you.

As for me, I’ve come for a fight. Too many people sit it out. They turn away and pretend nothing is happening because it isn’t happening to them, and men like Impelliteri feed on the things others refuse to protect. He grew strong not because people were afraid of him, but because no one cared enough to stop him. Or because they were getting just deep enough into his wallet to buy whatever toys or spirits provided their chosen distraction.

You’ve done it. I’ve done it.

We both know diplomacy is pointless. The men in power laugh negotiation off as weakness, and the only thing that gets their attention is pain: hurting their wallets or breaking their necks, and I don’t want his money.

I know you are associated with Marco Impelliteri. I want you to let him know I’m coming for him. I’m coming for him tonight. If he values his family, he will send them away. I don’t want innocent lives on my conscience.

In New Orleans, I told you I was never meant to win this fight. I still believe that. But there are ways to lose that are easier to stomach than others.

Regards,

Butch Cardinal.

“Idiot,” Lennon muttered.

If he warned Impelliteri, the bastard would call his entire crew in. Butch would walk into a chorus of tommy guns singing his requiem. But he had to know that. He couldn’t expect Impelliteri to send his family away and then wait in his house alone. So what was Butch’s angle? Lennon really wanted to know, because right now it sounded like the wrestler was looking for a quick and cheap suicide. And what was Lennon supposed to do about it? If he reported Cardinal to his colleagues on the force, then there’d be twice as many guns at Impelliteri’s house, twice as many men who wanted Cardinal cold and quiet. Impelliteri might even make that call himself, knowing he had nothing to fear from Chicago’s finest.

Lennon stood from his desk and then sat again. What was that horse’s ass thinking? Had he lost his fucking mind?

At ten p.m. on Christmas Eve, Butch pressed tightly to the brick wall that surrounded Marco Impelliteri’s home. The mansion was set back from the road and guarded by two men at the gate. He needed to find a clear area to hop the barrier without being seen. Snow fell and the accumulation had risen to his ankles. Wind gusted. He noted the cold but it didn’t get inside of him. He was too anxious. Too aware of his own fear.

He set off along the wall away from the road, deeper into the wooded area adjacent to the Impelliteri estate. He would approach the house from the side. Less yard there. Like Musante’s place in Wisconsin, the perimeter of the house was wide open, with no good cover save for the occasional decorative trees and shrubs about the property.

He built up his courage, thinking about Hollis and Rory and the faceless men and women the gangster had allowed to be murdered for his pitiful wants. In Impelliteri he saw Jerry Simm, and Lonnie Musante, and Paul Rabin, and Lionel Lowery. That singular guise encompassed every gangster, every rotten cop, every crooked promoter. He pulled the strings. He soured the world.

When Butch came to the point at the wall that was closest to the house, he turned and put his palms on the cold brick. A hand grabbed his wrist and Butch spun, ready for a fight.

John Hayes stood beside him in the snow, eyes wide and hands in the air, palms, gloved in black leather, out in a passive display. The Alchemi was bundled in a thick coat and a long gray scarf that matched his hat.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was sent to Chicago to retrieve the Galenus Rose,” Hayes said. “I haven’t done that yet.”

“How’d you find me?”

“You’d made your plans clear enough in Wisconsin, though it would have saved me three nights in the blistering cold if I’d known you were planning to attack Mr. Impelliteri on a holiday.”

“It’s the day before a holiday,” Butch corrected. He lifted his head and scanned the woods behind Hayes. “Where’s your buddy?”

“Mr. Ross is escorting Mr. Musante back to New York.”

“Well, there, you got something out of the deal.”

“True. But you could have disengaged the Mesmer Disk before you stole our car. Mr. Musante could have murdered us where we stood. Fortunately, the disk disengaged on its own before he woke.”

“Good to hear,” Butch said, throwing a quick glance at the top of the wall. “Maybe we could get caught up another time?”

“How did you get the Rose from him, Mr. Cardinal?”

“Stranglehold,” Butch said, distractedly. He eyed the woods and the fence line. Neither he nor Hayes were speaking loudly, but they shouldn’t have been speaking at all. If Impelliteri had guards roaming the grounds, any conversation would eventually be heard. “Cuts off the blood flow to the brain but causes no tissue damage. I figured the Rose wouldn’t go to work if nothing was broken or bleeding.”

“Do you have the Rose, Mr. Cardinal?” Hayes asked. His expression was earnest, a father demanding the truth from his child.

“Don’t be feeble. Of course, I have it,” Butch said. He patted his chest with three light raps. “I also have that bullet-stopping bib Mr. Brand wore and his arm band. You can have them all back when I’m done here. Now, you need to get moving.”

“What if I came to help, Mr. Cardinal?”

“Then I’d say you’re a damn fool. And I’d thank you.”

“We should get started then.” Hayes dug in a pocket and produced two small items. They looked like thumbtacks with gnarled heads and long rough pins. “Take one of these.”

“What’s it do?” Butch asked, reaching for one of the tacks.