Michael Harvey - We All Fall Down

“I’m in the car across the street.”

Her head swiveled, phone to ear, eyes fastened on the Buick.

“I paid the check. Come on over and get in the back.”

She stood up stiffly, looked around the shop twice, and left. I popped open the locks and she got in.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“This guy here.” I nodded to the passenger’s seat. “He works for Vinny DeLuca.”

I checked the rearview mirror and saw the tightening around her mouth.

“He’s not a hitter,” I said. “At least, I don’t think so. DeLuca probably has him tailing you until they figure out what to do. Now you want to tell me who Rissman is doing business with? Or you want me to fill in the blanks?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Vinny DeLuca doesn’t joke around, Rita. Whatever you’re doing, it’s got his attention. And that ain’t good.”

“You think the Outfit’s going to kill me? Seriously?”

“I think people have accidents.”

“This is assault, Michael.”

She made a move to get out of the car. I locked the doors again. Then I went through my pal’s pockets and found his cell phone. I hit REDIAL and waited. A voice I recognized answered.

“Johnny Apple, how are you?”

“Michael Kelly?”

“Is your boss there?”

“What are you doing with Chili’s phone?”

I looked over at Chili. “Is that his name? I remembered the face. One of those guys who hangs around on the fringes, drinking coffee and moving the furniture around every couple of minutes. You know those guys, Johnny. Fuck, you are one.”

“What are you doing with his phone?”

“Let me talk to DeLuca.”

“He’s not here.”

“Fine. I’ll keep the phone. Tell him to call me when he gets a minute.”

A pause. Chicago’s crime boss came on the line. “Fucking pain, deep in my balls.”

“Listen, Vinny. Your boy here is tailing Rita Alvarez. I think I know why. And I don’t like it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kelly. And since when do I give a fuck what you like?”

“You think that makes sense, Vinny?”

No answer.

“She’s a friend.” I glanced in the rearview mirror at Rita, who looked a little green around the gills. “Besides, I think we might have some common ground.”

“Business is business, Kelly.”

“I understand that.”

“Maybe your friends don’t.”

“She does.” Another look at Rita, who definitely looked like she might lose her breakfast all over the gangster’s upholstery. “Let’s talk.”

More silence.

“I can guarantee my friend does nothing until we sit down.”

“At my age, quiet’s a blessing. You keep it that way, and maybe we can talk.”

“Until then you call these guys off.”

“Give my man back his cell phone.”

I looked over at the passenger’s seat. “He’s not available right now.”

A sigh. “Fine. Leave him there. We’ll be in touch.”

“Bye, Vinny.”

He cut the line. I flipped the phone shut and dropped it to the floor.

“Take a look at this guy,” I said.

“I have.”

“Good. Now let’s get out of here.”

We slipped out of the car, got into hers, and drove.

“Where to?” she said.

“Just cruise the neighborhood.”

“What did you hit him with?”

I showed her the rolls. “Quarters, for when you only get one punch. Listen, you need to back off this thing. At least until we can talk to DeLuca.”

“You think I’m going to negotiate a story with Vinny DeLuca?”

“You like having all your moving parts moving?”

“Come on, Michael. I’m on to something.”

In her eyes I saw visions of those shiny trophies they give to crusading journalists, except this one was covered in seaweed and dripping wet. That was because they’d pulled it off the bottom of Lake Michigan, where they’d found it wrapped around Rita’s neck.

“Does Rodriguez know about all this?” I said.

“No. And he’s not going to find out. Help me work this. Maybe I can keep the mob angle out.”

“Do I have a choice? How close are you to running something?”

“Couple of weeks. Minimum.”

“All right. But you have to agree not to print anything until you talk to me.”

“Fine.”

“Whose baiting the hook for the city?”

“I told you. I’m not sure.”

“Maybe you don’t know all the names. But you got at least one.”

“I might have a middleman.”

“Let’s have it.”

It took fifteen minutes of driving, but I got the name. I even got an address.

Marcus Robinson sat on a flat roof across the street from the Korean’s grocery store, sighted a nickel-plated. 38 on the front door, and pretended to squeeze off a few rounds. He’d talked to Ray Ray for almost an hour. Told him everything the cop had to say. How he said it. Then told him again. Ray Ray took it all in, put an arm around Marcus, and explained that the Fours needed to take care of some business with the Korean that night. Marcus grinned, which made Ray Ray happy. Then Marcus got the gun from under his mattress and headed to the Korean’s shop. Ray Ray had business to take care of. So did Marcus.

Down below a cop car pulled into the alley alongside the grocery store. The first cop got out and walked the area. The afternoon sun glinted off the front of his hat. He nodded to the second, who popped the trunk and pulled out a black duffel bag with gold trim. The Korean’s dope. Soon to be Ray Ray’s.

The first cop banged on a door, and then the Korean was in the alley. He wore what he always wore: dark pants and a blue sweater with mismatched brown and yellow buttons down the front. He had a pair of glasses halfway down his nose and the stub of a cigarette flattened between his lips. One of the cops spoke to the Korean, who nodded. The other hefted the bag up onto his shoulder and carried it into the store. Four minutes later, the cops were back in their cruiser and gone.

Marcus climbed down the fire escape and sat with his back against the building. He pulled seven bullets out of his pocket, loaded four into the revolver, and clicked the chamber shut. He’d only had the gun a week when he and Twist found the dead doper, curled at the edges and lying in the basement of a rock house. Twist didn’t want anything to do with it. But Marcus did. Target practice. He put two bullets in the doper’s chest, and one in the temple. There wasn’t much blood, and Marcus didn’t feel anything inside. Except maybe he’d wasted three bullets. Still, word got around a little. And Marcus knew shooting someone was something he could do.

He walked to the corner of the building and took a look. The mouth of the alley was empty. At the very back was a truck with SILVER LINE TRUCKING printed on the side. Marcus leaned against the wall and felt the dull pain tapping away inside his head. He didn’t know why it was there. Just that it was.

Marcus stuck the gun in his pocket, crossed the street, and banged on the back door. “Hey.”

Marcus could hear the Korean in the cellar, light steps on the stairs, and then he was opening the door.

“Marcus. Where you been? Good boy.”

The Korean’s name was Mr. Lee. None of the chain stores would open up in the neighborhood, so Lee sold them everything from cereal to socks. Charged for it, too. But that wasn’t the Korean’s major source of revenue. For that, you needed to head to his cellar.

“You want money?” Lee rubbed a thick thumb and index finger together.

Marcus shrugged. Who didn’t want money?

“Good boy. Come.” Lee led him to the back of the store and sat him on a stool. The Korean rolled up his pants leg and pulled a fold of twenties from his sock. “Two hundred dollar. For you. Take it. Quick.”