The Fall(5)

The call ended in the same no-fuss way it began. No names, no places, no details. Too many ears, and phones—even unregistered ones—couldn’t be trusted. Thanks to Bin Laden and the Patriot Act, the only way serious business was done these days was face to face, which suited me just fine.

It would have been easy to call Damon and tell him I was walking. Lou was probably already buying time with the reaper, and I still had yet to locate the safe. But I didn’t like leaving jobs half done—call it a personal grievance—which meant I needed to haul ass.

With my cell shoved back into my pocket, my flashlight did another sweep of the warehouse. And there, sure enough, along the back eastern corner of the space was a matte-black box that was remarkably clean considering the rest of the landscape.

Bingo.

Then it was just a case of a few twists left and right and it was giving it up quicker than a cheap hooker in West Garfield Park.

And what do you know—it was empty. Color me surprised that a sackless POS with a gambling addiction didn’t have any actual cash. Sucks to be him. Well, at least it was no longer my problem.

I palmed my cell and dialed Damon’s digits, he could decide whether or not he wanted Lou dead or alive—my end had been taken care of.

“Mikey, taking a little longer than usual.” Damon’s Irish lilt crackled on the line.

“He’s dry, and close to lights out.” A quick scan of my watch giving me the heads up he’d probably lost consciousness by now. “Your call.”

“Well, that’s a damn shame.” He let out a long sigh. “Still, it’s my wife’s birthday today, so maybe I feel like giving out a present or two. It’s amazing what some newfound perspective will do. I’m positive Lou’s situation will change in the very near future.”

Translation, he was feeling charitable and was hoping now that Lou knew playtime was over he’d come up with the cash. No money to be made from a dead man, I guess.

“Yep. Understood.” I ended the call without so much as a goodbye.

Gathering any evidence of my visit and tossing it into my duffle bag, I pulled out a second burner and got my fingers working fast on the keys.

“Hello 9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

I doubled timed it out of the warehouse and back to my boosted ride. “Need an ambulance at Lou’s Meats, West Lake Street. Near West Side.” The call killed before they could ask any more questions.

No doubt they’d trace the call, not that it would yield much. But just to be sure, I pulled out the SIM and let the heel of my boot get cozy with it before tossing the lifeless phone over the fence.

No point taking chances.

Now I just needed to dump Sally Jones’ Mazda so I didn’t have a police escort to my meeting with Jimmy. And here I was thinking the night was going to be boring.





Jimmy Amaro might sound like he had a foot in the grave, but he was still razor sharp. Standing around six-two, with shoulders that would put most of the Bears defensive line to shame, his expensive suits earned their price tag keeping his big frame under wraps. And while he was happy to hang an American flag outside his door, it wasn’t the red-white-and-blue that had his allegiance. The self-serving bastard’s ties to the Old Country might have been a couple of generations removed, but it did nothing to loosen his stronghold on the family business. And by business I meant anything and everything the black market moved. Drugs, whores, guns, people—whatever there was a demand for, the Amaro family dealt in, which earned out more dollars than most small countries GPD.

A call from the man himself meant two things. The job was personal and the payout would be substantial. He had enough thugs and lowlifes in his crew that he didn’t need to outsource, so if he was—well, it couldn’t mean good things.

The place was an old speakeasy on South Dearbourn Street, on the south side of Chicago. It had been in the “family” since the Amaro Grandfather stepped off the boat, and while it seemed like a harmless old bar, the underhanded shit that passed through its doors would give Al Capone a f*cking hard-on. It had been raided a couple of times, and every time—whether it be Feds or local PD—they left empty handed with their tail between their legs. No one knew how they pulled it off, and if you were smart, you didn’t ask.

After returning the Mazda—the busted ignition sure to give poor Sally a case of the heebies—and wiping it down for prints, I retrieved my own set of wheels and made it to the meet with barely a few minutes to spare. It seemed the running theme, the tight schedule not unusual when running more than one job at a time. But it was being on Amaro’s turf without so much of a clue rather than my full agenda that was giving me the scratch.

“You carrying?” Sal, Jimmy’s personal bodyguard greeted me at the door. The bastard grinning like he already knew the answer as he met my eyes.

Standing six-four, there weren’t a lot of guys who gave me the eyeball without tipping their chin. Sal was no exception as he readjusted his stance.

“No, I was walking around town with my dick in my hand.” I rolled my eyes as I slid up my shirt to reveal the forty-five in the small of my back and the nine strapped to my chest.

“You can’t take those.” Sal smiled, a nod of respect thrown my way.

“Well, then we have a dilemma don’t we?” I made no attempt to unarm, my shoulders squaring off as I lowered my shirt.