“CASTRATING A DOG, GUS. That’s what all this newspaper talk is about. Grabbing my client on the street and throwing him headfirst through a window. That’s what’s bothering me, Gus.”
The man on my right, the big one with the recently permed long golden hair and the brass knuckles, kept putting new bruises on my rib cage each time I disregarded his earlier admonition: “You should call Mr. Apprezziano by his last name, asshole.”
But I figured if the man on my left, the one with the white wavy hair and the thousand-dollar alpaca coat and the long thin fingers, was going to call me Malachy—and mispronounce it as Malachai, at that—I’d call the skinny old fart by his first name, too.
They’d caught me off-guard, and when I’m embarrassed like that I tend to act even less prudently than usual. “So, Gus, lemme tell—”
“Wait, wait, wait, Mr.… uh … Foley. Let’s all just calm down, and I’m sure we’ll have a more profitable discussion.” Gus Apprezziano had one of those affected, world-weary voices, as though he’d seen it all, and it was all so very tiresome. Maybe he really felt that way. Or maybe he just watched too many movies.
I waited, silently happy to be on a last-name basis.
People I trusted had told me that Gus had the moral sense of a crawling swamp creature, but was a man of his word—like it or not. He was upper management—not at the top, but still up there a ways—and along with a bunch of other Outfit types was taking a lot of high hard ones just then in a Chicago Tribune series called “Uncovering the New Untouchables.” I was guessing he didn’t like his name surfacing in the papers, especially when the reporters kept hinting that the Feds were closing in. That’s why, at Melba’s, I’d thought mentioning the newspapers would catch his ear.
And that’s why there were three of us shoulder to shoulder in the backseat of his car, staring at the backs of two more heads in the front, and waiting to calm down and have a “more profitable discussion.”
In fact, quite a long time passed, while no one said anything. A CTA bus rumbled up beside us. Three passengers, a heavy-set young woman and two small children, stepped off into a deep pool of salty slush ten feet from the curb because the bus stop was occupied—by us. When the bus roared away a squad car followed it, then turned the corner to the right. If the cops happened to notice five men in a black Fleetwood in the bus stop with its motor running, they certainly didn’t let on.
Finally the game got too boring even for me. “Okay, Mr. Apprezziano. I’ll go first.” I’d already shown him I was dumb enough to disobey orders even at the risk of a punctured lung. I didn’t have to prove that I was patient as well. “I have a client named Lambert Fleming.”
“Yes,” Apprezziano said, “the creep who attacked—”
“Hold it. First, it’s doubtful that Fleming sexually assaulted that little girl. Second, even if he did, that doesn’t give Stevie Boy the right to threaten to cut off his balls, or to throw him through a window.”
“You might have doubts, Mr. Foley, but Steve Connolly is convinced that this Fleming person is the guilty one. And so am I. On the other hand, I have Steve’s word that he had nothing to do with either of those incidents.”
“Third,” I continued, “Steve Connolly’s word is worth about as much to me as yours is. Which is to say I wouldn’t bet the cost of a cold fart on it.”
Just what that meant even I couldn’t have explained, but it did earn me another love tap from Goldilocks, and a sad sigh from an increasingly gloomy Gus. The thing is, you have to keep these people’s attention if you want them to remember you.
“Maybe, though,” I added, once I’d regained my breath, “maybe that’s because we haven’t really gotten to know each other yet.”
“Steve would not lie to me. He is well known in his community, a precinct captain. He has friends, neighbors, people he has helped. Little people, if you will, people who cannot tolerate the abuse of an innocent child by a cowardly pervert.”
“Little people who want to score points with Steve Connolly because he’s got one foot in City Hall and one on your side of the street. People who don’t give a damn whether Lammy did it or not.”
“Lammy? Ah, Lambert Fleming.”
“Yeah, Lambert Fleming for chrissake. Did you forget him? That’s what this is about, remember? It’s about getting Steve Connolly to lay off him. The court’ll decide whether he messed with that little girl, and what should be done about it if he did. That’s why I’m sitting here talking to you, for God’s sake.”
“No. You’re sitting here because I put you here.” The world-weary tone had dropped away, and Apprezziano’s voice was cold and harsh. “You made a threat today, a foolish threat. Connolly did not order, or even suggest, that anyone harm that animal you call your client.”
“You have only Steve’s word—”
“That’s enough for me. What’s enough for you is what I tell you now. I’ve made it known that I disapprove of these incidents with your client. Eventually he will be found guilty and sent to prison. I’m confident he’ll receive punishment enough there, even for his unspeakable behavior.”
“Oh? And what if he didn’t do it? What if he’s found not guilty?”
“That’s absurd.” He paused. “But I won’t be responsible for anything that happens if he’s cut loose. In the meantime, though, until the trial’s over, no one will bother this animal. I promise that. I guarantee it.”
Bingo! How foolish could my threat have been, after all.
Apprezziano must have seen the satisfied look on my face. “Don’t bother to congratulate yourself, Malachai.” He still didn’t get it right. “You are entirely disposable. You know that.”
As though on a prearranged signal, Goldilocks opened the car door and climbed out.
“We’re all disposable, Gus,” I said, not moving. “In the end we all slide down the same cold chute.”
He stared straight ahead. “The difference,” he said, “is that I have the power to choose the time for you to slide, and the place. But no matter, just believe what I said. No more threats or harm to your client. And in the meantime…” He hesitated, seemed to switch gears. “Now get out of the car, I’m through with you.”
I got out of the car, digging into my pocket for my own car keys while Goldilocks took my place. He slammed the door without even a good-bye.
The Caddy’s motor roared and its rear tires whined, spinning in the slush. Then it was gone, coating me from head to foot with a spray of cold, salt-gray water. And with all the noise, they probably didn’t even hear the squealing scrape as I dug my key into the shiny black paint and held it there, letting the moving car draw its own long gash into its side.
Stepping off the curb, I waded to my own car and sat behind the wheel for a minute. I believed Gus Apprezziano when he said Lammy would be let alone. So why didn’t I believe him when he said he was through with me?