Murder in Chicago Page 4

  “You’re right about that,” Sam said. “It’s been a long time, though, Bet. Don’t you think you could…”

  “Don’t you dare give me any crap about moving on, Sam,” Betty said, pointing her finger at him, flaming rage flying from her eyes.

  “Aw, come on, Betty, I was just saying…”

  “Well, you can just not say,” she said. She started looking back over her accounts and furiously typed numbers into her computer, although her mind was beginning to fuzz over, as it did whenever she thought of Tommaso. “Look, I’m just glad she’s gone, although I wouldn’t want to be where she is, but she deserves it. Now, I’m perfectly happy with my life. You come here to borrow some coke, or to be my therapist?”

  Sam sighed. “You’re such a hard piece of work.”

  “Well, why are you here, then? Get out if all you’re gonna’ do is come here and talk trash at me. In fact, give me back that cocaine. Come on. Come on!”

  “Betty, don’t be like this,” Sam said. “I thought you’d gotten over that rage a long time ago.”

  “Fine. Keep it. Whatever. See if I care. Four keys ain’t nothing to me, anyways, Sam, as you well know. And why are you down and out? Why did you have to come here and beg me for some free stuff, huh? If you’ve got your life together so well, why don’t you have enough for your coke? Maybe my rage is serving me well, ya’ think?”

  She laid her hands out on the desk, ostentatiously showing off her rings. She wiggled her pinky finger, which had a huge diamond on it. “This ring is worth ten times more than my goods you’ve got in your bag. Who has their life together now, huh, Sam?”

  “Whatever, Betty,” Sam said. He crossed one leg over the other in a nonchalant way and lit up a cigarette. “I hate you when you’re like this.”

  “I hate you at all times,” she countered.

  Sam lifted the corners of his mouth in a smile, a look so infuriating it made Betty laugh.

  “Just leave me alone!” she shouted at him, but a modest smile was tugging at her lips.

  Sam burst out laughing. “You really do love me, Betty. I’m the only person in the world who isn’t afraid of you. That’s gotta’ count for something, right?”

  She tried to go back to her accounts. “You’re a fool, Sam.”

  “So are you. Two crazy fools together,” he said. “Me, having made millions and lost it all. And you, heartbroken over a man who left you fifteen years ago and died ten years ago. We’re kind of ridiculous, aren’t we?”

  Despite the burn in her chest, Betty could see his point. “Maybe. Want some liqueur? I sure do.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. He picked up a bottle sitting on the corner of her desk. “Chocolate liqueur. Isn’t that a bit girly?”

  She grinned, and poured two glasses. “Perfect for you, then.”

  “Thanks,” he said, pretending to be outraged.

  “Naw, you’d better not have anything stronger. Not sure you could take it after the first sip. She pushed the glass toward him. “You idiot.”

  Sam lifted the glass. “Cheers to two crazy, ridiculous, stupid people.”

  “Well, you’ll be on your own with that one,” Betty said. “I’m totally sane, filthy rich, and have an IQ that can run rings around Einstein’s.”

  “You should be more confident of your abilities,” Sam said sarcastically.

  Betty rolled her eyes. “What else do you want, or are you finally going to get out of my office?” She wanted him to stay, but Betty rarely did what she really wanted to do. She did what had to be done, and she didn’t want to go soft.

  Sam laughed. “You’re still the same. Only a little fatter and a little more bitter.”

  Betty made a little bow towards him. “Thanks, Sam. You’re still the same. Only a little poorer and a ton more pathetic.”

  “Ouch,” Sam said.

  Betty clinked her glass with his and took a huge swig of the liqueur. Then she lit a cigar and grinned at him. “Don’t dish out what you can’t take.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Sam said. “Now… honestly…” He shifted in his chair, and it was the first time he’d looked uncomfortable since he’d come into her office. “I want to ask you a question.”

  “Will I marry you? Sorry, no, babe. You’re gay, accept it, and I’m not gonna be your beard.”

  “I’m serious, Betty.”

  “Spit it out, then.”

  “Did you… well, I was wondering… I mean, I guess you—”

  “Oh, come on, Sam, spit it out!”

  “Okay,” Sam said. He took a deep breath. “I’ll just ask you straight out. Did you kill Shirley?”

  There was a long silence while they just stared at each other.

  “No,” Betty said, looking away from him. “Maybe I should have, but I didn’t.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?” he asked. “Swear to it?”

  “I don’t have to swear anything to you,” Betty said. “Have you forgotten who I am? Just because we were friends a long time ago doesn’t mean you have a free pass to come in here and disrespect me. You know what would happen to anyone else if they talked to me like you’re doing now?”

  “I’m not everyone else,” Sam said. “And I’m not disrespecting you. It was just a question.”

  “And that was just my answer.”

  Sam grinned at her. “It’s like we were kids again. Same old arguments.”

  But Betty wasn’t in the mood for that anymore. “Look, Sam, you got what you wanted. Can you just go, please?” It was so confusing being around him. She hated it and loved it at the same time. She felt she could open up to him, like she did to no one else in the world. But there was something intimidating about the intimacy.

  Everyone else feared her, and it created a wonderful distance between them that meant she could run away from every difficult conversation and every awkward moment she ever encountered.

  Everything could be covered up with a stern face and barking and yelling. But Sam wasn’t fazed by any of it. He wasn’t remotely scared of her. It was exhilarating and exhausting, both at once.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said, getting up. “Call me anytime.”

  “You’re darn right I will,” she said. “You owe me money for what’s in your bag. You’re lucky I let you keep it.”

  “You’ll see that money real soon,” he said. “See you, Betty.”

  “Yeah, right, you’re a failure at life, Sam,” she said, just before he went out the door. Then, when the door had clicked closed, she felt guilty. “Bye, buddy,” she said, even though he was already gone. The office felt so much lonelier after he left.

  CHAPTER 6

  Rocco Rosetti, also known as The Rock, was one of Chicago’s most feared gangsters. There were two reasons for this. One, because he had no family, and this made him reckless, and two, because he looked absolutely terrifying. At 6’7” he was extremely tall. He also had a huge scar running from his right ear to the right corner of his mouth. This was known as a ‘snitch cut’, being in the shape of a phone, and was doled out to those who ran to the police.

  The truth was, Rocco had once been an informer. A cop had offered him a boatload of cash to feed him information, so he thought, Why not? He didn’t owe anyone loyalty. He had no family to think about or consider. He’d been betrayed in the business more times than he could count. Why shouldn’t he put himself first for once?

  His height and his scar were terrifying. In addition to that were his piercing blue eyes that had a wild intensity about them and made people stop in their tracks. Some women, insane ones, found him irresistibly attractive. Others wanted to run away at the very sight of him. He had a polarizing effect on just about everyone he came across.

  Currently, he was holed up in a woman’s apartment and had been for the last three days. They’d lost themselves in a drug-filled haze, which had come to be the only way he could deal with life. He’d murdered too many people. Sometimes he had nightmares about them, their dead open eyes staring up at hi
m from their death-place on the ground.

  That was how he’d lived his life for the past eighteen months, bouncing around drug addicted women’s apartments, leaving whenever they sparked his rage, and he began to feel murderous. He really tried not to murder women if it was at all avoidable.

  This one, nicknamed Foxie, wasn’t too bad. She was docile, meek, and pliable, and as long as he would provide her with heroin, she’d do whatever he said. She was a pretty good cook, too, and he made her cook him up meals every single day without fail. His favorite was a steak she made with a red wine mushroom sauce that he thought was the best thing he’d ever eaten. Just thinking about it made his mouth water.

  She rubbed his feet, stroked his hair, and let him make love to her whenever he wanted. Whenever he got into a rage, she cowered in the corner and cried. That always made him angry, but once he’d hit her, he felt much better. Then she’d give him a big hug, and he’d calm down. He thought he’d probably stay around for as long as he could.

  That particular day, Foxie was in a happy mood and was dancing around the rundown apartment in her underwear. She said, “So when are we going to get that luxury apartment, babe?”

  Rocco had filled her head with all sorts of stories. The truth was, he had had a luxury apartment at one time, when business was going well. But just when things were going smoothly for Rocco, it all felt wrong. He had this terrible cloud hanging over his head, like something was going to go really bad. Instead of waiting for the impending doom to happen, each time he’d destroy his life on his own terms.

  When he had money, he gambled it all away and didn’t pay the rent. The landlords came after him, and he threatened that he’d slit their throat if they ever came asking for rent again. They said they’d send the police over, and since he was high on cocaine and up to his neck in criminality, he thought it was probably better not to have a little tea party with Chicago’s finest officers. He was out of that apartment like a lightning bolt, but of course he trashed it before he left. He smashed all the mirrors on the floor, broke a window, and poured red wine over the pristine white carpet.

  He’d lied to Foxie and said that all his crime proceeds were locked up in a Swiss bank account, to the tune of $30 million. He was just waiting for his lawyer to help him get the money out. This was the story he rolled out every time he asked her for a measly $10 here or there. She sold her body out on the street to buy drugs sometimes. Other times, he went out and robbed a drug dealer or two, to cover their expenses.

  “I don’t know, babe,” he replied, sprawling out on the couch. “But when that money comes, we can buy five apartments. We’ll live in one, rent out four, and live a life of total luxury. Just wait and see, babe. We’ll be like celebrities.”

  She jumped on the couch next to him, full of excitement, and tucked her legs up under her. Her eyes were bright with wonder. “Ooh, babe, can I have a Rolls Royce?”

  “Of course you can,” he said. “That’s nothing. You can have seven Rolls Royces if you want, one for each day of the week.”

  “And Gucci bags? And Louis Vuitton outfits? And can we drink the finest wine?”

  “We’ll be drinking it for breakfast out of mugs, darling,” he said. “Now give me $10. I want to go buy some crackers and cheese. In fact, you go buy them. Put some clothes on, and hurry up. Come right back here. I don’t want any man to steal you away from me.”

  The truth was, no one was even remotely likely to steal Foxie. She was dangerously underweight, was missing a front tooth, and had acne all over her face from her drug use.

  As soon as Foxie left, Rocco rushed to her jar in the kitchen where she kept her money from turning tricks. He emptied it out - $32 - and slipped it in his pocket. She’d wonder where it was when she returned, but he’d just convince her she’d already spent it. Over the years, he’d become adept at mind games, and was a master liar and manipulator.

  When she returned, she went in the kitchen and began to fix his crackers and cheese without being asked. He had her well-trained. Soon she returned with them on a plate, along with a glass of juice. “Eat up, Rocco,” she said. “You know, when I was at the store, I saw on the news something about this hairdresser woman. She was found with her hairdressing scissors pierced through her chest. Can you believe that?”

  He shrugged and stuffed a cracker into his mouth. “So what?”

  “Don’t you think that sounds horrible? I mean, poor woman.”

  “She wouldn’t feel sorry for you.”

  “What? Do you know her?”

  “No.”

  “So why did you say that?”

  He looked up at her with murder in his eyes. “Are you asking me questions?” he said in a low tone of voice that pierced through the air between them.

  “No, no, sorry, babe, I’m not.” She sat next to him and cuddled into his arm. He pushed her away, but then she did it again and he allowed her to stay. “Sorry, baby. I’m really sorry. Please don’t be angry with me.”

  He began to feel the rage rising in him. Who was she to question him, this pathetic drug addict that no one would want? He only wanted her for a place to rest his head. He stared at the TV, well, through the TV really, because he couldn’t focus. He chomped on his crackers and cheese, feeling anger pumping in his chest.

  “Babe,” Foxie asked, in a squeaky mouse-like voice. “Are you okay?”

  He leaped to his feet, grabbed the plate, and threw it at the opposite wall. It smashed in pieces onto the floor. “Shut up!” he roared at her. He hated anyone asking him if he was all right. “I can’t stand the sight of you.” He stormed out into the hallway and ran down the stairway that smelled of drugs, trash and urine.

  Rocco walked a block over to the bar that had a slot machine. He bought one drink at the bar and changed the rest of the money into dollar bills to gamble. Half of him wanted to win - $100 was the jackpot - and the other half of him wanted to lose. If he won, he’d likely just put it all back in the machine and lose it again, anyway. When you had no plans for your life, what was the use of money?

  Rocco nursed his whiskey – which Foxie had begged him not to drink, because it made him even more violent than usual – and pushed dollar after dollar into the slot machine. Sitting in front of the machine, he pulled the lever. No match. And again. No match. Dollar after dollar turned into loss after loss, and in less than two minutes, all his money was gone.

  He stared at the machine, wondering what to do next. He was beginning to think perhaps he should have bought some food, because his belly was rumbling and the crackers hadn’t made much inroad into his hunger. Or maybe he should have bought the next hit, so he and Foxie could get high and forget the world. He was beginning to feel flat and uncomfortable. The inevitable comedown.

  “Hey man,” someone said from behind him. Rocco flinched and turned. “Are you using the machine?”

  Rocco looked up at the guy from where he was seated. The man was a short dark-haired man who looked like he worked out. Rocco studied him for a moment. “Who’s asking?”

  The short man laughed and said, “Do you own this machine, brother? Come on, man, let an old guy take a try.”

  Rocco got up very slowly from the seat, watching the man all the while, and then shifted into the seat next to the machine.

  “Looks like I’ve got an audience!” the short man said cheerfully, sitting down. “Well, you’re not in for much of a show. I’ve only got $2 to spin.” The man pushed in his first dollar, and Rocco watched intently. The man pulled the lever, and the pictures on the slot machine began to spin, but when they stopped, none of them matched.

  “Bad luck,” Rocco said, smirking at him.

  The man pushed the next dollar into the machine, then pulled the lever. First, a 7 came up. Rocco held his breath. Then came another 7. And finally, another 7. The machine went wild, with flashing lights and music, and proceeded to spit out five crisp new $20 bills. The short man jumped off the stool, threw his hands in the air, and said, “Yes!” Then he
grabbed Rocco to hug him.

  Rocco, incensed, pushed him away so hard the man fell on the floor. Then Rocco scooped all the money out of the machine before the man could get back up. “Thank you!” he said.

  The man had gotten up and his face was turning red. “That’s my money!” he said angrily. “Give it back!” He threw himself at Rocco, but Rocco was faster. He grabbed his glass and smashed it over the man’s head. Blood began to spurt out from the top of the man’s head and some flew in his face. He tasted it on his tongue.

  By now, the bar crowd had erupted. Two men grabbed Rocco from behind.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the short man said, his hands covered in blood from where he’d touched his head. “You’re psycho! Keep the money, if it means that much to you. You’re a maniac!”

  “Good!” Rocco yelled, straining against the men who held him back. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you like I killed that cop!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Donald Richards, better known as Porky, sat by the pool in the back yard of his Miami mansion, sipping on rosé wine. His big belly made him look pregnant, and his long black hair, which he coiled into a neat braid down his back, made him look more like a grotesque kind of woman than a man. He wore fluorescent yellow speedos that showed everybody far more than they wanted to see.

  His business manager Edwin, an African American Florida native, who was not connected to the Mafia, sweated beside him on a chaise lounge, dressed in a suit and tie. Porky always made a point of being casual while insisting that everyone else follow strict codes of formality. It was his way of keeping them in check and showing them who was the boss.

  He was glad to be out of the Mafia, where strict family codes and hierarchies kept him in his place. Here? His aggression and money were enough to put him at the head of the pack, and he wasn’t going to give up that status for anyone. Back in Chicago, he’d gotten tired of always having to answer to the higher-ups.