Page 16

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

September 16, 1996

Monday morning

T he less said about Motel 6 the better. It was your basic two-story corporate hotel. The room was bare and clean. There was a queen-sized bed with a mattress that was a bit lumpy and sheets that had a thread count of about thirty. The best thing I could think of to say about the place was that Norman Bates didn’t work there.

I’d slept well. Mostly because I hadn’t the night before. And there was the advantage of not having a teenager around to throw up all over the bathroom. I was dreaming that I was being crushed by some malevolent enemy, when the phone started to ring and saved me. I sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, trying to calm the pain in my shoulder. It wasn’t quite gone when I picked up. “Yeah?”

“I told you to use the card I gave you.”

“I decided to use my own card.”

“I asked for Charles Henderson. I thought you might have run off.”

“I’d like to run off.”

“You have to take me to school.”

“I have to take you to school?”

“Yeah, I’m in high school, remember?”

“How about playing hooky?”

“My mom freaked out when I said I was staying home. And they call her if I don’t show up.”

It sounded like he might have some experience with that. I asked, “Why doesn’t she drive you to school? That way she’ll know you’re there.”

“Just come get me. Jesus Christ.”

And then he hung up.

I took a very hot shower wishing I’d told him to bring my Tylenol with him. Then I got dressed in yesterday’s clothes. The red turtleneck—now on its third day—and the blue crew neck sweater. I looked very patriotic. Didn’t matter, though. I was hoping I’d get to fly home later in the day.

I made my way back to their house pretty easily. Cass was standing in front of the house with the backpack he’d used to travel across country slung over his shoulder. He climbed into the Belvedere.

“You’ll have to direct me. I don’t know where your high school is.”

“Go straight.” Then he directed me back out to 10 Mile Road.

“So you’re a senior?” I asked.

“Yeah. What did you think? I got held back?”

“It was just a question. Are you thinking of going to college?”

“Like my mom’s going to send me to college. She already told me I have to get out as soon as I graduate.”

“Well that’s not very maternal.”

I’d already figured out that maternal wasn’t exactly Joanne’s jam.

“Says you. My mom was married with a baby when she was seventeen. There’s nothing wrong with growing up.”

“You know your mom is quite the character.”

“I love my mom. And she loves me.”

“Yeah, you’re a match made in heaven.”

We rode along quietly for a minute or two.

“Did your mother say anything of value after I left?”

He looked out his window, watching the lovely suburban neighborhood go by. Then he shrugged, “She yelled at me for using one of her credit cards.”

“Did she figure out you gave one to me?”

“No. It’s safe to use it.”

“I’m not— You do know that stealing is wrong, don’t you?”

“Stealing from credit card companies isn’t wrong. I mean, they’re trying to steal from us. It’s just fighting back.”

I decided to leave that one alone. A moment later he asked, “So, like, what are you going to do today?”

“You said you have an aunt who works at a bakery. I thought I’d go talk to her.”

“You should talk to Luca. He’s probably the one who told my mom that someone accidentally killed my dad.”

“It sounds like he’s dangerous whether he did it or not,” I pointed out.

“You told me you killed three men. I think you’ll be all right.”

I should never brag. There was a time when I wouldn’t have hesitated to go talk to someone connected to organized crime. I’d done it quite a lot in Chicago. I’d known it was dangerous when I did it and I hadn’t cared. Now I had a lot more to lose, and not just my own life. The lives of those around me.

For instance, this kid. I could get him killed if I wasn’t careful. He was stubborn, difficult and obnoxious. Which didn’t mean I wanted to see him dead.

“You want me to kill him for you? Is that what you’re angling for?”

“No. I want to kill him.”

I wondered if he’d be able to. Under the right circumstances anyone can be a killer. Or at least that’s what they say. So I guess the question was, were these the right circumstances for Cass?

The high school was a two-story, blond brick building sitting in the middle of a massive parking lot. There was a line of cars waiting to drop kids off.

“What is this?” I asked. “Doesn’t anyone take a bus anymore?”

“Poor kids take the bus.”

I decided not to break it to him that if his mother tried to live on what she earned he’d be one of the poor kids.

Before he got out of the car, he said, “School’s out at three. Pick me up.”

I drove around for quite some time trying to find a cup of coffee. I was navigating via 10 Mile Road which seemed to be the big conduit in this area. I drove by a lot of green, empty fields and backyards until I finally found an intersection with a Walgreens and a bank branch on two of the four corners. One of the other corners had a gas station with a minimart attached. I walked in and found that I was lucky. Sort of.

I poured a large cup of coffee, picked out a tin of twelve Tylenol, and was about to risk a mass-produced cinnamon roll when I remember something. I put the roll down and went up to the counter with my coffee. As the clerk was checking me out, I asked, “I’m looking for an Italian bakery on McNichols.”

“Four eighty-three,” he said.

I gave him a five. He handed me seventeen cents, then said, “Keep on 10 Mile until you get to Telegraph then go south to McNichols, just after the cemetery.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

As soon as I got back into the Belvedere I realized I had a problem. There was no such thing as a cupholder in 1958. I sat at the gas station, swallowed four Tylenol and drank my coffee until I was halfway through it.

The car also didn’t have a clock. I figured it was a pretty basic model. Problem was I never wear a watch so I had to guess at the time. I’d dropped Cass off around eight, spent a lot of time driving down 10 Mile Road, and been sipping coffee for at least ten minutes. It had to be around nine.

I got out and tossed the rest of my coffee into a garbage can, then got back in and set off for the bakery on McNichols. About ten minutes later I’d found Telegraph and then completely missed the turn onto McNichols. I doubled back and started going east looking for an Italian bakery.

I found it about six blocks from Telegraph. It was called Barones and had a red-green-and-white awning. Signs in the window advertised that they were open, and that they served cannolis and cakes as well as imported Italian specialty foods. The building was free-standing and there was parking along the sides.

When I walked in a bell rang above my head. I was met by a row of glass cases filled with cookies, pastries and cakes. Behind the cases, a woman in her early sixties stood frowning at me. Her hair was gray, refused to be pulled back, and her eyes suspicious. She wore a smudged apron.

I busied myself looking at all the cookies. I pointed and asked, “Can I get a dozen of these?”

“Biscotti originali?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Using her hands, she plunked a dozen in a white bag. Before she was finished, I asked, “So… is Josette Di Stefano working today?”

She stood up, looked around the small shop as if she might find Josette, then said, “No. She’s not.”

“Do you know Josette well?”

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Chuck Henderson.”

Why not? I could almost prove it.

“I’m helping out Josette’s nephew, Cass Reilly. He wants to know what happened to his father.”

“He’s not the only one.”

“Did you know Dominick Reilly?”

“We went to Saint Rose for a while. His family went there, too. They said a mass for Dominick at least once a year.”

I wondered if my family ever had a mass said for me. Then I quickly pushed away the idea. It didn’t matter. I was fine. I wasn’t in a car at the bottom of Lake Erie.

“Do you think he just ran off?”

She shrugged and said, “Men do, you know.”

“What does Josette think?”

“She and her sister aren’t close. Mainly because her sister’s a narcissistic whore.” Before I could ask, she added, “Her words. Not mine. Not that I disagree.”

“Does she think her sister had Dominick killed?”

“She doesn’t have any proof, if that’s what you’re asking. But if you’re taking a survey, yeah. Joanne and her cousin killed her husband. Everybody knows it. Nobody can prove it.”

“Her cousin Luca?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“What do you know about Luca?”

“I know what everyone knows. I know to stay away from him.”

“Because he’s violent?”

“Because he’s professionally violent. The Amatos and the Di Stefanos are connected to Big John Giacomo. Luca is their muscle.”

The name Giacomo didn’t mean much to me, but I assumed he was up to no good. It could be drugs, gambling, prostitution, extortion, loan sharking. All sorts of charming things.

“Luca has a trucking company, you know what it’s called?”

She knew, I could see it in her face, but she shrugged anyway. After a moment, she said, “Hold on.” She disappeared, then was back with a thick Yellow Pages.

I took it from her and set it on top of the glass case. As I flipped through, I realized I wasn’t even sure what it meant to have a trucking company. Was that shipping or moving? Or was it both? And once I figured that out, how would I know which one belonged to…

Oh, wow. That turned out not to be hard. I went to TRUCKING first and halfway down the list, I found LUCA’S LIFTERS. I guess that meant he provided in-town moving services. I wrote down the address: 12 Mile Road. It didn’t sound too hard to find since I’d already been on 10 Mile Road. It must be a few blocks north of that.

I said thank you to the woman who’s name I hadn’t learned—probably because she’d rather I didn’t know it—and left the bakery with my biscotti. I took one out and crunched on it as I drove north. Dropping crumbs on the front seat, I passed 7 Mile Road, 8, 9… eventually I got to 12 Mile Road. I made a wrong turn, then doubled back until I found the street address I was looking for.

It looked wrong. I was expecting something like a parking lot full of trucks with a small building where an office was housed. What I found was two office buildings, each two-stories tall and brick—looking a lot like Cass’s high school. There was a parking lot running around the buildings on all sides.

I double-checked the address. It was the right one. I drove around the buildings checking the parking lot for moving vans. I didn’t see any. The closest I came was a gray Chevy Suburban with tinted windows and a white van sitting next to each other, not too far from the entrance to the building on the west side.

I parked, shut the car off and went inside. I took a biscotti with me and ate it while staring at a directory made with moveable plastic letters. Luca’s Lifting was on the second floor in room 207. I thought about taking the stairs. It was only one floor. But instead I went to the elevator and pressed the UP button.

It didn’t take long for the elevator to arrive. I tried to sort out what I’d be saying to whoever was in Luca’s office. I need to hire a mover—that part was simple. But why didn’t I just call? I was in the neighborhood and decided to stop by? I was a building inspector? I’m looking for a different Luca?

I hadn’t decided, and I was already walking down the hallway to the office. Some of the doors I passed had plaques that gave the business’ name but none of the offices seemed very active. The floor was particularly quiet.

When I reached 207, I hesitated before knocking. I leaned close and pressed my ear up against the door. There was nothing to hear. I stepped back and knocked on the door. Waited. Nothing happened. I knocked again. Waited again. Nothing. No one worked there.