One Last Kill Page 8

  Poor Phil.

  “Thanks a lot. Have a good night.”

  “Thanks, you too.”

  Cal walked down the hall and felt for the knife in his pocket. Satisfied it was there, he pushed the partially opened door ajar and entered the room. It must have been meant for two people, because the bed nearest the door was empty, while a curtain was drawn around a second bed.

  Cal closed the door behind him and strode over to the curtain. He wondered what state the man was in. Was he awake or in a medically induced coma?

  Cal grabbed the edge of the curtain and slowly pulled it open. He didn’t have a chance to see what was behind it before a large hand shielded his eyes and an arm clamped tightly around his collarbone from behind. He realized he’d been careless and hadn’t checked the bathroom or the closet to see if anyone was hiding when he entered.

  The person holding him removed their hand from Cal’s eyes and secured their grip beneath his arm. It allowed Cal to see that Phillip’s throat had been slashed. Fresh blood soaked the man’s hospital gown and the bedsheets. Next to Phillip’s bed, sitting in a straight-backed chair, was the last person Cal expected to see—Mayor Ross Caruso.

  “Hello, Mr. Boyle. Such a pleasure to meet you.”

  13

  The smile on Caruso’s face was wide, and from what Cal could tell, fake. Despite having seen him many times on television, and earlier that day walking into City Hall, Cal hadn’t realized how confidently Caruso carried himself in person.

  Even seated, Cal knew Caruso stood taller than his own height of six feet three inches. Everything else about Caruso’s appearance screamed phony politician. His hair was dyed an inky black, and his smile revealed unnaturally white teeth.

  “You want me to take this guy out, boss?”

  Caruso shook his head at the man holding Cal. “Not yet. Let’s see how Mr. Boyle answers our questions.”

  Cal recalled the encounter with Marco and Phillip earlier that morning. It had been difficult, but he’d managed to escape. He’d been lucky to have Tony with him. He’d have to find a way out on his own now.

  “I have a question for you, Caruso,” Cal said. He would play the mayor’s game and wait for his opening, when the man holding him let his guard down. “Why kill Phillip? If you wanted him to die anyway, why not let me do it like I was supposed to?”

  “Ah. Like you were supposed to? Who told you that you were supposed to kill Phillip?”

  “No one,” Cal lied. “I knew he was going to live after what happened in the alley. I came back to kill him before he talked. I guess I was too late.”

  “Yes, you were. Phillip said that you and the kid you were with were the ones who picked up MacErlean the other day. Is that right?”

  Cal didn’t answer. He knew that part would get out.

  “Did you kill him?”

  Cal refused to answer. Caruso lifted a finger at the man behind him. Cal’s captor responded by trying to rip his right shoulder out of its socket, sending a wave of pain coursing through his body.

  “Answer the question, asshole,” the man said.

  When Cal refused to speak again, he felt another squeeze of the shoulder joint, and he couldn’t help but groan in pain. Caruso flashed his teeth again.

  “Mr. Boyle, we can make this very easy or very hard. Before Phillip’s untimely death, he told me all about you and that young driver you had with you. I know you’re working for Alfredo Petrocelli. Otherwise, why would you have taken MacErlean?”

  “Yeah, I killed him. So what?” Cal answered, his voice rising in irritation and pain.

  “Then you know why we were interested in protecting him. For someone so low on the totem pole, he knew quite a bit about you and Mr. Petrocelli. What he told us doesn’t just concern Alfredo. It concerns you as well. I think you know what we’re talking about.”

  Caruso gestured at the man behind Cal. The putrid odor of sweat permeated the room as the man lifted his arms off of Cal and held a gun to his back. He patted Cal down, searching for a weapon. He reached Cal’s pockets and pulled out the jackknife. Satisfied Cal had no other weapons, the man pointed to a chair for Cal to sit in. He reluctantly obliged.

  “Isn’t it great that we can talk like gentlemen now? I don’t have to worry about you trying to escape. Not that you would if you want what’s best for that boy you were with. I’d love nothing more than to go eye for an eye by taking him in.”

  Caruso smiled that phony politician smile once again. Cal swore he saw the corner of one of his pearly white teeth sparkle as he talked. Cal could see why Alfredo hated Caruso’s guts.

  “Alright, I’m listening. What do you want?”

  “I think I’ll be asking the questions around here, Mr. Boyle, not you. Before you killed poor Mr. MacErlean, did you find out what he told me?”

  “Not specifically, no. But I have a pretty good idea of what it is, as you hinted at earlier.”

  Caruso didn’t laugh, his smile only grew broader. Cal wondered how he could sustain such a smile for immense lengths of time. How many dinner parties, fund-raisers, meetings, and speeches required such a cheap grin?

  “Ah yes. Justice is finally being done, my friend. Do you know how much pain my grandfather’s demise caused me? If the Petrocellis would’ve let my grandfather legitimize his business the way he wanted and not beaten him half to death, maybe he would’ve been more than a mere vegetable in the final years of his life and I could’ve had much better memories of him. Alas, Alfredo doesn’t care much about family, does he? If he did, he wouldn’t have ordered the death of his own father.”

  Cal kept his face still, refusing to signal any recognition of the hit. He realized he’d been right in thinking that was the secret Alfredo was dying to protect. How MacErlean found out about the hit was beyond him. As far as Cal knew, only he and Alfredo knew the true circumstances behind Louie Petrocelli’s death.

  “You already knew that was what MacErlean told me. But did he also tell you that I know it was you who did it? Jesus, you really are a sick bastard, Boyle. Letting your new father kill his old man? You basically ordered the death of your grandfather. I’m sorry, but that’s cold. Ain’t that right, Bernie?”

  The man with the gun could only grunt. Cal hadn’t realized how big the man was until he observed him head-on. His head resembled two bowling balls squashed together with dark-black hair along the sides. He sported a trimmed goatee and had a falcon tattoo atop his chest, beneath his wrinkly neck.

  After more silence, Caruso stood from the chair and walked toward Cal’s seat. Cal stood to meet him. He didn’t want Caruso to think he had any power over him, or that he inspired any fear. If Bernie didn’t have the gun pointed on Cal, he would’ve taken Caruso down right there. Maybe then things would go back to normal. But he knew it was too late for that.

  “I think you can see the gravity of the situation for the both of you. If I were to tell the Commission that Alfredo ordered a hit on his own father and there was no good reason for him to do so, they’ll come after him, his kid, and you. You’d be as good as dead.

  “But I’d hate to see that. I’ve heard all about you, Mr. Boyle. For years, you’ve been behind some of the most well-executed killings of the mafia’s enemies. You could prove quite useful. What would you think about joining forces with me? You could finally leave that rotten liar Petrocelli behind and be fighting for good. I want to clean up the crime in this city, and with a man like you by my side, I really think we could be going places.”

  Cal was shocked at the request. He was being asked to leave one power-hungry person only to join forces with another. It didn’t sit well with him. Besides, why trust Caruso? Alfredo and the mafia were “family,” even if he was beginning to imagine a future without them.

  “I understand it’s a difficult choice. Let me make it a little easier for you. See Phillip over there? Remember Marco? I’ll instruct Superintendent Walker to charge you with their murders. I’ve also recorded your statement admitting you kille
d George MacErlean. That’s three murders on top of dozens of others I’m sure I could link back to you, with proper police attention. Either you stay with Alfredo and the Commission kills you, or you spend your life in prison, if I have some mercy. Or you join forces with me and you stay alive and free. I can promise you greater riches than whatever the mafia is paying you.”

  Caruso’s smile widened, and Bernie laughed behind him. This wasn’t the outcome Cal had expected when he’d arrived at the hospital. Why had Fonzie shown up and prevented him from leaving? If there was one thing Cal knew at that moment, it was that he wanted to be done with this life. Killing and doing dirty work for men like Alfredo, men like Caruso—it was something he could no longer justify.

  “You’ll never tie me to those murders,” Cal said. “What would people think if they knew the mayor of Chicago was associated with common criminals? It certainly wouldn’t look good for your promise to reduce crime. I’m sure we could also dig up the records of the Petrocellis supporting your ascension in the Illinois State Senate with donations. Heck, they bought you the mayoral seat with all of their financial backing.”

  Caruso’s smile faded and his cheeks turned a deeper shade of tan. After taking a deep breath, Caruso flashed the trademark smile again.

  “I guess I underestimated you, Boyle. You’re smarter than I thought. But let me give you something else to consider. I’m sure MacErlean told you about your mother’s death. I’m sure Alfredo Petrocelli saw your potential as a killer from a young age. What makes you think he wouldn’t have had your mother killed in order to take you in and use that to his advantage once you were older?” Caruso stepped past Cal and drew the curtains back around the bed where Phillip lay before heading for the door. He motioned to Bernie, who tossed Cal his jackknife, with the gun trained on Cal as he shuffled toward the door.

  “That actually happened, didn’t it?” Caruso asked. He looked to the door and took a deep breath. “The offer is open until I tell the Commission as planned. After that, you’re on your own.”

  Caruso made a move to open the door. Even though Cal realized he wanted to end his days as a hit man, especially considering what Caruso had told him about his mother, a tiny piece of his brain was still loyal to Alfredo, still loyal to the mafia that had been such a big part of his life.

  “Knowing what kind of man you are, there’s something Alfredo can do to change your mind about telling the Commission. Isn’t there?” Cal said.

  Caruso flashed his annoying smile again.

  “Good night, Mr. Boyle. As I said, the offer stands. For now.”

  Cal watched as Caruso and Bernie exited the room. He’d have to quickly follow before any nurses came in to check on dead Phillip. There was no doubt about it now: Cal was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  Either join forces with the mayor or side with the Petrocellis even longer.

  14

  Alfredo Petrocelli took the Purple Line to the Red Line for his trip into the city on a steaming-hot Thursday morning. He planned to meet with Mayor Caruso to see if he could knock some sense into him. As a powerful mobster, Alfredo never relied on public transportation, yet he felt like living among the everyday citizens of Chicago for one day. With his disguise, no one would recognize him for who he really was.

  A salt-and-pepper wig was fit securely over his thick graying-brown mane. A similarly colored mustache with adhesive backing was stuck above his upper lip, and fake stubble was sprinkled on the sides of his cheeks. It was a little overboard, but he was appreciative of Melissa’s efforts at his disguise. He would only remove the phony facial hair once he was in Caruso’s office, and not a moment before.

  He was somewhat nervous about meeting with Caruso, and a dull throbbing sensation in his head added to his discomfort. When Cal said he’d run into Caruso on his way to eliminate the second of the mayor’s goons at the hospital, Alfredo was intrigued. His intrigue turned into fear the moment Cal told him the mayor planned to go to the Commission with the news that he had ordered a hit on his own father.

  Once his suspicions of what the mayor knew were confirmed, he knew something had to be done about it, which was why he had a meeting set up with Caruso right away. His intention was simple—get Caruso to back off. He wanted to show him that, despite being backed into a corner, he was still a powerful and dangerous man who couldn’t be fucked with.

  Alfredo got off at Lake and walked to City Hall. After being directed upstairs by a security guard, Alfredo entered the reception area of the mayor’s office and told the receptionist that Joe Lewis had arrived to see the mayor. That was the name he and Caruso had agreed upon to prevent anyone from knowing the boss of the Chicago mafia was meeting with the mayor.

  Instead of being escorted back by a staffer, Alfredo was surprised to see Caruso himself walk down the hall to greet him. What a piece of work: dyed hair, whitened teeth, freshly pressed suit. The tan was probably fake too.

  “Mr. Lewis. How are ya?” Caruso asked in the loudest and phoniest possible way.

  Alfredo extended his hand and squeezed extra tight when Caruso shook it. He kept his grip in place, hoping to hear the crunch of the mayor’s bones. Caruso’s smile remained but was less prominent as he gritted his teeth in pain.

  “Very well, Mr. Lewis. Let’s head to my office, shall we?”

  Alfredo followed Caruso back to his office. He was dying to take off the ridiculous wig and mustache as soon as he got inside. Several eyes followed as he walked down the main corridor. Beige cubicles filled the entirety of his peripheral vision. It seemed like everyone working in the office was on the phone at that moment. He was grateful he’d never had to work in an office like this.

  Alfredo stopped staring at the cubicles and noticed the portraits of past mayors to his left. The Daley family had a long reign in the city’s top political position. While his father and grandfather never confirmed it, Alfredo was convinced that, at one point or another, they’d been in the mafia’s pocket.

  Once the office door was closed, Alfredo took off his fedora and hung it on the empty coatrack next to the door. He hoped removing the hat would relieve the building pressure in his head.

  The mayor’s office was sheer luxury, too extravagant for the office of a public servant. A mahogany desk took up most of the room from the center of the office and extended back to the wide window overlooking the street. Two leather-backed chairs sat in front of the desk, and there was a smaller oak table surrounded by more leather-backed chairs to his right. Various books on politics and the history of Chicago adorned bookshelves to the right of the desk.

  Alfredo was so caught up in admiring the office—and contemplating an upgrade to his own study—that he didn’t notice Caruso sit down.

  “Would you care for a drink, Mr. Lewis? I can have Gertrude fetch something for you.”

  “Yeah, a coffee would be good. It’ll keep me sharp enough to make sure you aren’t fucking with me.”

  Caruso let out a small laugh and phoned the frumpish old broad that they’d passed on their way into the office. Alfredo would have to wear the ridiculous costume for a little while longer. Once Caruso hung up the phone, he turned his attention back to the boss.

  “Alfredo, you know I would never do such a thing. I may not like it, but I know you’re as much of an institution to the city of Chicago as deep-dish pizza. Your struggle is my struggle and your success is my success.”

  Alfredo wanted to knock the stupid smile off of Caruso’s face. He wondered if the office was soundproof so he could rough Caruso up a bit. He wouldn’t be able to get away with killing the poor bastard, but that could be arranged later.

  “Cut the bullshit, Caruso. We both know you have a vendetta against us. You’re still upset about what happened to your old gramps nearly thirty years ago. You mentioned us in your state of the city speech about cutting down on crime. And thanks to intel I’ve gathered from my associates, I know you know a little secret about me.”

  Caruso started to chuckle aga
in but stopped when Gertrude knocked on the door and entered with a tray containing two steaming mugs of coffee. One mug had a picture of the Chicago skyline on it; the other was a mug for one of the mayor’s programs for children. Alfredo hated kids, so he saved that one for the mayor.

  “Thanks, Gertie,” Caruso said as his elderly assistant exited the room. “She’s great, isn’t she?”

  Alfredo grunted and took a seat across from the mayor while grabbing the mug with the skyline photo. “Oh yeah, she’s a real treat to look at. I bet you can’t resist the urge to have her blow you underneath the desk.”

  Alfredo took his mustache and wig off while the mayor leaned back in his chair and cackled. “For such a tight-ass, I didn’t expect a joke like that, old boy.”

  Alfredo sipped the coffee and set the mug on the tray. It was overly bitter. He considered adding cream and sugar but didn’t want to seem like a wuss in front of the mayor, so he held off.

  “Can we get on track here? I have it on good authority you know something about my father’s murder. I also know that men in your position love trading favors. I’ve come here to ask you, Mr. Mayor, what is it that you want to keep this from reaching you know who.”

  “Well, nothing would please me more than to tell the Commission about that hit you ordered on your father and have them take you, your son, Vinnie, and that hit man Boyle out. Just think of all the crimes we’d prevent. Just think about how good that would look for me. I can see it now. Mayor Ross Caruso, cleaning up crime one goombah at a time.”

  Alfredo exhaled audibly. His hands gripped the arms of his chair to avoid the urge to beat Caruso to a pulp. “You know as well as I do that, regardless of what happens to me, the Chicago mafia is here to stay. You’ll never eliminate crime from this city. We’re not even the worst of your problems. What about the black-on-black crime on the South Side? How are you gonna clean that up?”

  Caruso seemed to consider this as he sipped more coffee. “Relax. Like I said, your struggles are my struggles and your success is my success. When you’re struggling to do business, that’s not a good thing for the local economy, is it?”