Triple Shot (3 page)

‘Can I get you something, Kate?’ I asked again.

And was roundly ignored. Again. ‘You haven’t read our
Brookhills Observer
,’ Kate scolded Art. ‘Or even seen the television news. Ward’s producer here has been scouting our jewel of a town since last week and Ward arrived on Sunday. They’re going to stage
The Treasure of the Brookhills Massacre
this Saturday.’

‘
Stage
?’ It was less a word and more an intake of air from the blonde, presumably the aforementioned, but as yet not-introduced, producer.

Chitown glanced back at her. ‘Deirdre is quite right, Katy.’

Uh-oh: I’d never heard anybody call Kate McNamara ‘Katy’ before. I bellied up to the service window to get a better view of the carnage.

But alas, Chitown continued unbloodied. ‘We don’t “stage” what is, quite simply, a search for the truth.’

‘No, no, of course not,’ Kate said, her face reddening to the point that the freckles marking it nearly disappeared into their background. ‘I meant “stage” only in the logistical—’

But Art Jenada had fixated on his home-boy. ‘Ward, I haven’t seen you for ages. Really miss you, man. How’re the wife and kids?’

With ten million people in the greater Chicago area, the chances of two people meeting there and subsequently stopping by my Brookhills coffeehouse had to be . . . ‘You really do know each other?’

‘Well . . .’ Chitown hedging. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had—’

But Art just talked over him. ‘Ward here is legendary in Chicago. First, as an investigative reporter, and then being the host of
Chitown on Chi-Town
. That ran for – what – twenty years?’

‘Twenty-two,’ Chitown corrected.

‘A TV show?’ I guessed.

Art growled under his breath. ‘Not
just
a TV show, Maggy. It was the number one, local noon-time program in the country during its hey-day.’ Art turned back to Chitown. ‘I don’t expect you to remember, but you had me as a guest once.’

‘I . . .?’

Art forgave him with a wave. ‘Ah, of course you don’t. There must’ve been hundreds of guests on that show over the years.’

‘Thousands,’ Chitown said, seeming to relax in the warm pool of adoration Art was ladling onto his feet. ‘But you do look familiar, Mr . . . um . . .? Wait a second, the first name . . . it’s Art, right?’

‘Right!’ Art turned to me, beaming. ‘Amazing, isn’t he? Like I said, a genuine legend.’

More like a genuine good listener. Just a few minutes ago, Chitown should have heard me ask ‘Art’ if he wanted a refill of his coffee.

But, then, in my experience good listeners are even rarer than legends. I gave our visitor a wide smile and the benefit of my doubt. ‘Well, a hero to Art deserves a drink on the house. What can I get you and your producer?’ I extended my hand to the woman. ‘Is it Deirdre?’

‘Yes, Deirdre Doty.’ she said, shaking. And not just my hand. The slim woman was shivering even in the heavy coat, and her clasp was like ice.

‘You poor thing, you’re freezing.’ I pointed to the dry-erase board that highlighted our specials. ‘Our fall Triple Shot latte should warm you up.’

‘“Triple Shot, fully-loaded”,’ Doty read aloud. ‘What’s it loaded with?’

‘Sugar,’ Sarah said. ‘A little fat on those bones would provide insulation. Or are you one of those fitness freaks?’

I ignored my business partner, hoping Deirdre Doty would do likewise. ‘It’s also good
un
sweetened or artificially sweetened, if you like.’

‘No, I think the sugar would be nice, but maybe without the milk,’ Doty said, glancing at Chitown. ‘It would be like our Café Cubano, Ward. All over again.’

I’d had Café Cubano, or Cuban coffee, when visiting South Florida. It’s strong, sweet and amazingly smooth – almost creamy. ‘Exactly like one, Deirdre, only super-sized, in the American tradition. But I’m afraid I don’t stock demerara sugar.’

Deirdre Doty seemed impressed I knew of the unrefined sugar, similar to turbinado, but coarser. ‘Whatever you have is fine.’

‘Some turbinado, then.’ I put a couple of heaped spoonfuls of the natural sweetener in the bottom of a small cup and set it aside. Then I positioned the basket of our long-handled portafilter under the cone grinder and pulled the lever twice, releasing a measured amount of espresso before twisting the filter onto the espresso machine, placing a small stainless steel pitcher below it to catch the brew and pushing the button. ‘Would you like one, too, Mr Chitown?’

‘Ward, please. And I’d love it
con leche
, if you can.’

Literally 'with milk,' which defined a latte was in the first place.

‘Easily,’ I said, reaching for a larger version of our stainless steel espresso pitcher. ‘Whole milk?’

‘Please, though I know it’s decadent. Deirdre is made of sterner stuff and drinks the brew straight.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t have anything to use for jolts,’ I said to Doty, knowing that Cuban establishments provide customers with a stack of thimble-sized plastic cups, so the caffeine and sugar-laden beverage could be divvied out and tossed back like Jell-O shots.

‘In a cup is just fine,’ she said, ‘since we don’t need to share like when we were on assignment in Miami. Remember, Ward?’

I could sense Kate McNamara, not a good ‘sharer’ herself, bristle at the idea of the other two off ‘on assignment’ together anywhere, but especially a hot and glamorous city like Miami.

And, more especially, sharing
any
thing.

‘Deirdre is from Miami,’ Chitown said, ‘and showed us how a single, solitary Cuban coffee could fuel our whole crew.’

‘Florida’s Magic City,’ I said, pouring Chitown’s milk into the larger pitcher and sticking it under the frothing wand. Just managing to cut a look at Kate, too.

I’d nearly gotten the woman fired from her first television job and she’d nearly gotten me arrested for murder.

Made it tough to be friends. Not that I’d ever tried very hard.

I affected a sigh. ‘Miami, so beautiful, so . . . romantic.’ I poured a little espresso into Doty’s cup to make a paste with the sugar.

‘I’ll have a large black coffee,’ Kate snapped. ‘And make these all to-go, before we pass out from the rat stench.’

Ahh, Kate. Insulting my shop by using 'stench" twice, but still trying to jump on the free-drink bandwagon. Well, let her twist in the wind.

Large black coffee: $1.75. Pissing off Kate McNamara? Priceless!

I slowly poured the rest of the espresso into the cup. The idea was to get foam when it mixed with the sugar paste.

‘Bravo,’ Chitown said.

‘Thank you,’ I said, gauging my work before I slid the cup across to Doty. ‘I’ve never prepared it the traditional way before.’

‘Nice’ said Sarah, approvingly. ‘Usually Maggy just dumps all the crap in together.’

Not about to let my partner rain on my professional parade, I brewed – or ‘pulled’, as the technique is called – three more shots of espresso and followed the same ritual, this time in a full-sized coffee cup so I’d have room for the steamed milk. ‘
Voila
.’

‘I said to-go,’ Kate snapped again. A wonder she didn’t crack a couple of teeth per day.

Art, who had been waiting patiently all this time for another opp with his hero, put an arm around Chitown and steered him to a table next to the Barbies. ‘So, Ward, what brings you to our little town?’

‘I told you,’ Kate started irritably, as Deirdre Doty followed the men. ‘He’s—’

Sarah, having witnessed the entire exchange, whinnied like a plow horse. She has a long face and huge teeth, so she’s disconcertingly good at it. ‘Oh, Kate, let the man bask in adoration. He probably doesn’t get much of it these days.’

I threw my partner a startled glance. ‘You know this guy, too?’

Sarah shrugged. ‘I get the Sunday
Chicago Trib
.’

I knew the
Tribune
was one of the big city’s two daily newspapers. ‘And it carried a feature about this Brookhills Massacre?’

‘Of course not, idiot. A news story recounting Chitown’s ugly divorce. From his second wife. You know, a generation-skipping trophy one.’

I was thinking about the trip to Miami with Deirdre Doty and, supposedly, ‘their’ crew.

‘Did his wife accuse him of cheating?’ I asked, glancing over toward the table where Art, Chitown and Doty now sat, chatting.

‘Nah, more like being a has-been.’

‘Ward is no such thing,’ Kate said indignantly.

Sarah held up her hands. ‘Hey, scribe, give it a rest. I’m just quoting the man’s wife.’ Now back to me. ‘Apparently he couldn’t sustain the lifestyle to which she’d become accustomed.’

‘So, she dumped him?’

‘Hey, if a woman twenty years younger takes a shine to some guy, it’s probably
not
because of his sparkling conversation.’

Sarah had a point. As my ex-husband Ted had found out when he dumped me for Rachel,
his
trophy wife, now once-removed. Permanently.

I’d opened my mouth to ask something further, but a hushed voice interrupted, ‘Y’all want to know what
really
happened?’

Chapter Three

‘We all’ swiveled to see Elaine Riordan, our anorexic Southern belle, who’d finally returned from the restroom.

‘What really happened where?’ I asked, trying to look interested. It was a façade I mounted for our newer customers. The old ones knew me better.

Still, the details of Ward Chitown’s marital break-up might prove more fascinating coffeehouse conversation than most.

But, alas, that didn’t appear to be what Elaine Riordan had in mind. ‘Why, at the Brookhills Massacre, of course.’ Riordan moved closer, her big handbag slipping off a thin shoulder. She hitched it back up, sneaking an adoring glance at the table where the TV man and his flock sat. ‘It's why Mr Chitown over there is in town and I’m happy to say the society has been able to provide his producer all sorts of information.’

‘Your historical society?’ I asked.

‘Oh, yes.’ Now Riordan was nodding like a bobble-head. ‘News stories and the most awful photos. Even police reports.’

OK, my turn. ‘I don’t mean to sound stupid, but . . .’

‘Too late.’ Kate pulled a coffee cup toward her, then reached across the counter for a carafe and poured her own.

‘. . . exactly what
is
the the Brookhills Massacre?’

‘It was a shoot-out, between the FBI and the Mafia?’ Riordan said. ‘A fascinating tale, especially for Mr Chitown, whose own father was the special agent-in-charge that day.’

‘When was all this?’ I asked.

‘1974,’ Riordan said. ‘And it took place right across the tracks from you.’

I glanced out the train-side window. ‘The old slaughterhouse?’

As I understood it, the building that faced us from over there had been used in the veal industry. Logical, of course, with the trains right there to bring in the cattle and ship out the meat, but just looking at the place gave me the creeps.

‘No, Maggy. This is just next door?’ Riordan's Southern lilt made even simple declarative sentences sound like questions. ‘At Romano’s Ristorante.’

Romano’s. As in Tien and Luc? Before I could ask my question of Elaine Riordan, Sarah diverted me with one of her own:

‘A restaurant that's slaughterhouse-adjacent? Talk about your fresh meat. I mean, do you suppose it was like those seafood places that have lobster tanks in their dining rooms?’

‘Meaning you finger Bessie out in the corral and they take her around back?’ I asked.

Sarah nodded. ‘Next time you see her, she’s medium rare.’

Elaine Riordan looked genuinely horrified. Welcome to my world.

‘Anyway,’ Kate took up the story. ‘Mobsters from all around the Midwest were meeting in the restaurant’s back room, divvying up cash skimmed from their Las Vegas casinos and sports books. In fact, Ward’s father . . .’ She called over to the man at the table. ‘Ward, what was your father’s name?’

Chitown, with an apology to Art, rejoined us. ‘His name? Samuel.’

‘No, no. His
last
name.’

‘Why, Chitown, naturally. After all, I am his son.’

Sarah, as is her wont, put into words what we were all thinking. ‘C’mon, man. You want us to believe that’s on your birth certificate?’

‘Of course it is.’ Chitown looked offended. ‘Probably pronounced differently when my ancestors arrived here, but as spelled out it most certainly was – and remains – our surname.’

Sarah still looked skeptical, but I said, ‘Was your father killed in the raid?’

Chitown shook his head. ‘No, thank God. He lived to retire from the agency and died just this past year, in fact.’

Riordan stuck her hand out to Chitown. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, sir, but it’s truly an honor to meet you. I’m Elaine Riordan, of the County Historical Society?’

‘Oh, yes, Ms Riordan. I appreciate the help you’ve given Deirdre on my behalf.’

Everything, seemingly, revolved around Ward the Sun.

And Elaine Riordan certainly wasn't immune to his gravitational pull. She hadn’t let go of the man’s hand. ‘Were you able to obtain access to the buildings? I believe there’s split ownership, with the slaughterhouse having reverted to the county? But as I told your producer, I’d be more than happy—’

‘Oh, yes. Yes,’ Chitown said, gently extricating his hand from her grip. ‘We’ll be all set. And, again, thank you so much.’

‘Don’t look now –’ Kate said, nodding toward the table where Riordan had been sitting – ‘but your friends are leaving.’

MaryAnne Williams was nowhere in sight when I turned, the brunette was scuttling out the door and the drag Barbie – in relative position, not manner of dress – was gathering her handbag.

Riordan ignored Kate and returned to bobble-head mode. ‘In fact, six men died that day. Three were La Cosa Nostra lieutenants and the others FBI agents?’

Chitown mimicked her nodding. ‘With four special agents wounded, my father included.’

‘Only one man left standing,’ Riordan intoned solemnly. ‘Or running, should I say?’

Chitown looked at her appreciatively. ‘You really do know this story.’

‘I find all history fascinating, but this case, what with the mob connection and the missing . . . loot?’