10.

“DANIEL?” JEANIE’S VOICE IS GENTLE with concern. “Daniel, are you not feeling well? You haven’t touched your breakfast.”

Daniel looks up from his hands and notices the plate before him for the first time. He smiles and shakes his head. “No, I’m fine, love. I have a bit on my mind is all.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“No.” Daniel shakes his head slowly, trying without success to take the hollowness from his voice. “Nothing. Well, yesterday…” but he cannot find the words to tell her how he found Michael. Sooner or later, one of the guys will show up at his door with the news. Jeanie is fragile enough with the baby’s death; she doesn’t need to know that Ruby may have seen Michael and Dean’s murdered bodies.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sweetheart. I’m sure.”

“I’ll make another pot of tea then. This must be cold.” Daniel stops her hand as she reaches for the pot.

“No, don’t make tea.” Daniel’s voice, level with decision, forces Jeanie back into her seat. Turning and looking at his wife, her eyes still puffy with sorrow for the child they lost, he continues, “I think we should move.”

“Move?” Jeanie’s voice is tight with surprise.

“Yes. I think it would be good for us, as a family, to move. To start fresh.”

“But, where would we move to? The North Shore?”

“No, I mean, leave the city altogether.” Daniel pushes on before Jeanie can argue. “I was thinking of moving us to Montreal. We could set up near your aunt and uncle. There is more family there for Ruby and for you, and I think that’s what we need right now.”

“Well….” The idea of moving back to Montreal is surprisingly appealing, a fact that catches Jeanie off guard. Memories of an earlier time rush into her mind, forcing a smile into her voice, the first hint of happiness Daniel has seen in weeks. Encouraged by this, Daniel laughs, one short volley of humour that works like a spell on the moment. “Come here.” He grins, pushing his chair from the table and indicating his lap.

“Daniel,” Jeanie chides.

“What? You don’t like to sit on your husband’s lap anymore? Come on, girl, I want to put my arms around you.”

Jeanie’s face breaks into a smile that reaches her eyes. She hesitates for only a moment. Wrapping his arms around her, Daniel kisses her neck, inhaling the scent of her. “I think we should make the move, Jeanie. And if we are going to do it, I’d like to do it as soon as we can. It will be a fresh start for all of us. We can try for another child if you like.”

Jeanie, with the warmth and strength of her husband’s arms around her, feels somehow soothed. She never thought she would feel joy again, but now, sitting with Daniel like this, she dares to find the strength to go on. Overwhelmed, she begins to cry, hastily pushing the tears from her face. She nods, unsure whether she is agreeing to return to Montreal or to life itself. She is relieved to have regained her ability to hope.

They are quiet, both lost in their own thoughts yet aware of each other’s presence—Jeanie’s breath on Daniel’s cheek, her hand lost in his. “We’ll talk about it later, all right? But I do think it will be the best thing for us.”

Jeanie nods and stands, running her hand through Daniel’s hair. When she speaks, her voice is hoarse with emotion. “I’ll have to check on Ruby. She’s still playing with her doll house. She isn’t even dressed yet.”

“Well, let her play. I’ll be in the study—there’s some work I have to finish.” Daniel rises and kisses Jeanie on the nose, sealing their decision, before heading to his small study off the hallway, his thoughts tumbling ahead of him with dizzying force.

Alone in his study, Daniel feels trepidation rising in his chest again, tight and cold as a fist. His emotions, teetering on the edge of panic, leave him paralyzed for long minutes at a time. What has he done? What has he gotten himself into? At all costs, he must protect his wife and daughter. For the fourth time, he opens the bottom drawer of his desk. The deep oak compartment slides out to reveal the money, its smell, warm and almost metallic, wafting up and flooding his mind with the images of the day before.

“Daniel?”

He closes the drawer and looks up, a forced smile on his face. “Jeanie, what is it, love?”

“Are you all right? Didn’t you hear the door?”

“I guess I’ve been distracted with the books.” He moves his hand over the desk, which is littered with paper and open ledgers.

“Well, Vincent Ducci is at the door with another man. They’re asking for you.” Jeanie studies her husband, concern creasing the corner of her eyes. “Is everything all right, Daniel? You haven’t been yourself this morning. And now Vincent is showing up like this, so early on a Saturday morning.” She lifts her hand, gesturing towards the front hallway.

“Show them in. I’ll find out what’s going on. And Jeanie?” Daniel meets her eyes. “Don’t worry. Whatever it is, I promise everything will be fine.”

Vincent Ducci’s large, square frame fills the doorway. His hand is extended in greeting, his eyes hooded. “Danny, how’s it going?”

“Good, Vinny. Come in.”

“You remember Cherry?” Vincent asks, indicating his companion, who nods slightly, his eyes quickly sliding away from Daniels.

Daniel knows Cherry, otherwise knows as Charles Berry, very slightly. He is one of a number of guys who hang around the flower shop, running errands for Dean, talking big and acting hard, anxious to be seen as something. Daniel has never liked him. Now, as Cherry moves around the room, eyes wandering with covetous hunger, Daniel feels increasingly uncomfortable, on the edge of anger.

“Sit down, boys.” Daniel indicates the small couch and chair before the fireplace.

“Thanks,” Vincent answers, seating himself in the chair, running the rim of his fedora held between his fingers. “Daniel, I have some bad news.” He is still looking at his hands.

“I know.”

“You know? Know what?” Vincent asks, his attention sharpened.

“Michael and Dean. Shot.” Daniel’s voice catches on the last word.

“How did you know?” Vincent’s eyes narrow.

“Ruby and I dropped by with some lunch for Mick and,” he lifts his hand in a gesture of bewilderment, “I found Dean in the shop and Michael….” Finding it difficult to go on, Daniel looks at Vincent, then out the window. When he continues, his voice is flat, his emotions held tightly in check. “Michael was upstairs where we had left him. He was on the floor, shot in the stomach. He was still alive.” Daniel looks at Vincent again. “He died in my arms.”

Holding Daniel’s gaze, Vincent nods his understanding. He clears his throat, his anger just under the surface. “It looks like Torrio and Capone have sent us a message, loud and clear. I got there just after Viola and before the cops could mess everything up. Whoever did it was serious about it. Dean—three shots point blank, one in each cheek, one in the gut. They must have gone upstairs to the office and found Mick there with the take for the week. They shot him and took everything. Cleaned out the safe.”

“This means war, my friends.”

“Shut the hell up, Cherry. That’s not for you to decide.” Vincent’s voice is harsh.

“I ain’t deciding anything; I’m just stating the facts,” Cherry spits back.

“Did you see anyone or anything when you arrived, Danny?” Vincent continues after a moment.

“No, nothing.”

“Torrio and Capone are behind this, but I just don’t know who they used. Dean’s death is a message, loud and clear!” Vincent repeats, his eyes narrowing as he looks into the middle distance.

“Daddy!” Ruby runs into the room, hair still damp from the bath, an empty satchel hanging over her shoulder and bumping against the ground. “Daddy, look! I’m going to school.”

“That’s nice, honey,” Daniel answers abruptly, standing and moving toward his daughter. “But go find Momma. Daddy’s busy right now.”

“Hey!” Cherry barks from the corner of the room. “Isn’t that the school bag from Schofield’s?”

“No, it’s mine,” Daniel answers quickly. “Michael and I both had one. His is at Schofield’s. I’ve had this one for years.”

“Oh, yeah? It looks just like the one at the office.” Cherry moves closer and squats down beside Ruby. She can feel the man’s intensity, dark and disturbing, as she looks into his face, so close to her own. She can smell the sour scent of his breath.

“Where did you get that old school bag, doll?” Cherry asks, his voice too sweet to fool even a child.

“It’s Daddy’s,” Ruby answers, her eyes pulled to the man’s yellowing teeth that seem to be escaping from his mouth in every direction.

“And where did Daddy get it?” Cherry asks, taking Ruby’s arms in both his hands, his smile widening in an effort to disarm her.

Dragging her eyes from the stranger and leaning away from him, Ruby turns to look at her father. There is a prickling feeling running up her neck and a tightness in her stomach. She is frightened by the silence that has fallen into the room like a shadow.

“Hey, my little Jewel.” Daniel moves to Ruby, takes her hand, and leads her to the hallway. “You look like a big girl going to school. You go find Momma and tell her Daddy is going out to the flower shop.”

Ruby nods, confused and frightened, her voice swallowed by the pain in her stomach.

Cupping Ruby’s chin in his hand, Daniel turns her face to his, his smile a reassurance. “Go tell Momma that I won’t be long.”

Without a word or a look back, Ruby runs from her father, pushing past her feelings, anxious to be away from the room and the strange men.

Turning to Vincent, his voice level, Daniel continues, “Let’s take this somewhere else.”

THE LATE MORNING is overcast and grey as they head for Schofield’s. Daniel, in the passenger seat beside Vincent, is relieved to be taking this business away from his home.

“I’ll tell you right now,” Cherry growls from the back seat, “if I found the guys who done this, I’d give ’em a slow death.” Leaning forward, he pulls a gun from his coat pocket and moves it back and forth like a pendulum, laughing. “What do ya’ think, Danny? Where would ya’ shoot a guy so that he dies real slow? You saw action over there in France. What’s the slowest possible death?”

“Why don’t you shut your goddamned big mouth, Cherry? And get that thing outta my face or you’ll be the one dying the slow death,” Daniel answers, pushing the barrel of the gun from his face, his words heavy with bravado he doesn’t quite feel.

“All I’m saying is that it’s funny, the satchel and all. I mean, I would have never thought that there were two exact same bags as that. Maybe you just brought it home by mistake. Maybe it was full of money, too.” Pushing Daniel’s shoulder, Cherry laughs, low and dangerous.

“And maybe you should just shut up,” Daniel throws back at him.

But Cherry doesn’t. By the time they arrive in the back alleyway of Schofield’s, Cherry is convinced Daniel has taken the money. Finally, he turns to Vincent. “Come on, Vinny. He was there. He knows the combination. The golden boy walked in and saw his opportunity all laid out for him, nice and easy!”

“Yeah, that sounds right. My brother was lying on the floor, shot in the gut and bleeding to death, and I just cleaned out the safe, stepping over his body while I did it. What do you take me for?”

Vinny glances at Daniel, slows the car down, pulls up along the garbage bins, and reaches for his cigarettes. Daniel is out his door before Vincent has shifted into park. Cherry’s wielding of the gun and the taunting insinuations are driving him into a controlled panic. The air, mixed with the scent of garbage and rotting flowers, does little to relieve his anxiety. Daniel moves toward the back door, his face flushed, his heart racing. He hears the sound of a match strike and Vincent, head bowed, takes a drag on his cigarette. Then Cherry is on him. Daniel can feel the cold threat of steel behind his neck. Rage floods his body as he spins, reaching for the gun and taking both of them to the ground.

Cherry’s grunt is loud in Daniel’s ear. Daniel’s senses are heightened, and he notices Cherry’s breath against his cheek; the sour smell of smoke and liquor and onions; the course fabric of Cherry’s coat sleeve bunched in his hand; the weight of the other man’s body, hard as iron as he twists from beneath him; the smell of garbage, stronger now as the two men wrestle for dominance.

“Hey, boys! Break it up!” Daniel hears Vincent’s voice, almost cajoling as he moves with predatory speed from his position behind the wheel.

Vincent’s attitude, the sickening smell, the physical contact—all this, Daniel takes in, observing from a distance, watching the scene unfold as if he is suspended somewhere above the narrow alleyway. It is all too immediate, too real, like the scenes that fill his mind from time to time, transporting him the thousands of miles back to the mud and insanity of France. He wants to cry, to laugh, to forget why he is rolling around against the hard ground, the desperation of another man pulling him into a place he doesn’t want to be.

There is a grunt, a broken half laugh below him, then the sound of a gun, loud and hard against the concrete, and then nothing. Daniel watches Cherry’s eyes drain of life, his features almost unrecognizable. His jaw has been partially blown away, and his mouth gapes grotesquely up at Daniel, who feels the other man’s body surrendering into death. Then Vincent is moving them apart, calling his name, and finally shaking Daniel back to the present moment.

“Danny, what the hell…?”

Daniel, wiping the blood and bone from his face, points at Cherry’s dead form. His voice will not come.

“Come on, help me get him into the car. We gotta get him outa here.” Vincent crouches over the body, lifting Cherry up under the arms. “Grab his feet.”

Daniel stares, trying to find his voice. “I … I….” But his mouth is too dry to form words, his mind unable to find them. Again, he wipes at his face, damp and sticky.

“I know, kid.” Vincent looks up. His eyes, barely visible beneath his fedora, are locked on Daniel’s, forcing contact.

Daniel, averting his eyes from Cherry’s face with morbid reluctance, looks at Vincent.

“I know, kid.” Vincent repeats. He continues only when he has Daniel’s full attention. “Grab his feet and move him to the back of the car. I got a tarp in the boot, and I don’t want this waster messing up my car. Danny?” Vincent nudges Daniel to get his attention. “Danny! Hey!” He grabs Daniel’s arm with a rough pull, letting Cherry’s dead body slump to the ground. “Hey, snap outta it. We gotta move this guy and get the hell outa here.” Taking the cigarette that has been firmly clamped in his mouth, Vincent hands it to Daniel. “Take a drag on this; you need it more than I do.”

In a daze, Daniel takes the cigarette, inhaling deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs; the effort helps.

“Let’s lay this down and roll him into it.” Vincent returns with the tarp. “We’ll dump him on the South Side and they’ll think Torrio’s men did it.” Vincent nods and then continues, “He took the shot to the head—that’s good.”

Daniel takes one more pull and then flicks the butt into the alley. In minutes they have Cherry’s body in the tarp and in the trunk of the car.

“Okay, let’s move.” Vincent’s voice is edged with excitement as he slides in behind the wheel. Daniel feels dizzy, either from the cigarette or the whole experience, and pauses at the passenger door. Sweat rolls down his face as the world begins to spin around him. Leaning forward, hands on his knees, he vomits, his stomach convulsing upward with a force he is unable to control.

Vinny has started the car, evidently impatient. “Come on, kid. Get in the car.” Vinny calls out, leaning over and opening the passenger door.

Wiping the sweat and spit with the back of his hand, Daniel climbs in. His body is slick with perspiration and he is beginning to feel cold and damp.

“You okay?” Vincent backs up, glancing quickly at Daniel’s face, which is still white with shock.

“Yeah, I’ll live. But…”

“But, what?”

“What are we going to tell Cherry’s family?”

“Nothing. What the fuck are you talking about, Danny?” Vincent’s face is dark as he glances at Daniel. “This ain’t the goddamn army. Besides, Cherry don’t have no family. Whatever he had, you’re looking at it.” Vincent laughs and fishes out a smoke from his pocket.

“I’m sorry, Vincent.”

“For what? For this?” Vincent indicates the back of the car with his thumb, his cigarette lit and clamped firmly in his mouth.

“Yeah.”

“Cherry was a waster, Danny. He woulda bought it one way or another. Just too bad it was on your watch.” He pauses. “And this may work out well with what Hymie is planning.”

“Glad I could be of use,” Daniel answers with sad sarcasm. His eyes dart toward Vincent, who is staring over the wheel, nodding in the smoke circling around his head, his mind racing forward.

They are driving, but Daniel has a hard time remembering where they are going or why. No, he remembers why. His breath is coming quickly, his heart beating hard in his chest.

“Here.” Vincent nudges Daniel’s arm, nodding to the cigarette pack he is holding. “Have another smoke.”

Daniel, hands still shaking, finally lights the cigarette and takes a deep pull, feeling the smoke burn his throat, his lungs. Holding it in, he finally releases it, watching the smoke stream from his mouth, steadying his heart beat and pulling his emotions out with it. He takes another drag, his hand trembling only slightly as he lifts the cigarette to his lips. “Vinny?”

“Yeah?” Vincent turns. The smoke curling around Daniel’s profile catches the light, forming a halo and illuminating the perspiration still on his face. “What, kid?”

Without turning Daniel continues, “I should tell you. I took the money, Vinny.”

A beat of silence echoes between them. “Yeah, I know,” Vincent answers, his eyes fixed on the road in front of him, negotiating a turn.

“How … when…?” Daniel leaves his sentence fragmented and unfinished.

“How did I know or when did I know? Is that the question?” Vincent quickly looks at Daniel, his profile moving from shadow to light in the moving car. “I didn’t know until I saw the satchel. You know, it’s something I seen for years. Seen it so much I never saw it no more. You know what I mean?” He nods to Daniel. “Then I seen it in your house, and, well, the penny dropped, as they say.”

“We should go get it, Vinny. Let’s go get it.” Daniel’s voice is edged with hysteria.

“No, Danny.” Vincent laughs, his heavy features creasing with the effort. “We’re not gonna go get it. Shit is gonna be coming down. Hymie is on the war path, out for revenge. They killed Dean, they killed Mick, they took the money. Leave it at that. It won’t make no difference. Hymie and Moran have already set the wheels in motion. There will be payback like you ain’t never seen, kid. In fact, you ain’t gonna see it. Take the money and get the hell outa here. Mick never wanted you mixed up in any of this anyways. And the Cherry thing, nobody’s gotta know the truth about that. Let them find the body and draw their own conclusion—that’s what people like to do. They’ll build a story around one of O’Banion’s men found murdered on the South Side. It’ll have nothing to do with you, and nobody needs to know the truth. This is the best thing.” Vincent looks over at Daniel who is watching the smoke rising from the cigarette in his hand. “You hearing me, kid? Danny?” Vincent places his hand on Daniel’s shoulder and shakes him gently as if waking him from a dream. “Danny, forget it now. It was an unfortunate accident. Shit like this happens, whatcha gonna do? Cherry is a no account waster and he shouldn’t a’ been waving that gun around. He was asking for it. It might work out good for us, but it was an accident, plain and simple and don’t nobody need to know about it.”

Daniel nods, repeating Vincent’s words in his head. It was an accident. Wasn’t it? He could tell right away, with the first bit of physical contact, that Cherry was no match for him. Daniel had been in hand-to-hand combat, and his reflexes were still sharp, his training lying dormant just under the surface. When Cherry moved in behind him, the gun hard against his neck, it was as if he lost all conscious thought. Forced to play a part he knew well, he did just what he had been trained to do.

Bringing Cherry to the ground was hardly an effort; with his elbow pushed against Cherry’s windpipe, Daniel easily wrestled the gun from his hand, and, before he could stop himself, he had blown the other man’s head off.

He didn’t have to do it. As soon as Daniel’s instincts took hold, his body and mind no longer his own, he felt the other man’s submission, felt the slackening of muscles against his body. He felt Cherry’s hand tapping his arm, almost pleadingly, as if giving in. If Daniel had released his arm from across Cherry’s windpipe, he may have heard the man beg for his life.

“Where are we taking him?” Daniel asks, dragging his thoughts back into the present.

“I was thinking ’bout dumping him on the South Side, but I got a better idea. We’ll take him to the Green Mill on North Broadway. It’s our territory, but the club is owned by Capone.

“That’s right, the Green Mill Jazz Club is owned by Capone. I think Michael may have told me that.”

“Yeah,” Vincent spits out a laugh. “What kind a balls is that? I’ll tell ya’, Capone is a new breed. Mike Merlo and Torrio and Dean, they’re old school. All of us is kids from the neighbourhood just taking what we can from our own territory, but Capone wants it all and he don’t care about spilling blood. We dump Cherry behind the Green Mill and it’ll look like one of Capone’s outfit did him in. Yeah, it’s perfect.”

“Doesn’t Jack McGurn run the Green Mill?” Daniel asks, still sorting out the information.

“Who do you think McGurn works for?”

“I didn’t know Capone had any Irish in his outfit.”

“Are you shittin’ me, Danny?” Vincent looking quickly over at Daniel, a half smile on his face. “Have you ever seen McGurn?”

“No. I haven’t been in the Green Mill for a while. Why?”

“McGurn ain’t Irish, Danny. His name is Vincenzo Antonio Gebaldi. He changed his name when he was trying to make it as a boxer in Brooklyn. Irish boxers get more fights, so he goes under the name Battling Jack McGurn. He weren’t even in no gang until his old man bought it in a mistaken identity by some White Hand gang members.”

“What?”

Vincent takes a drag of his cigarette and settles into his story like a bear into a winter’s nap. “Yeah, I guess they mistook his old man for Willie Altierri, one of Frankie Yale’s men. You know Frankie Yale—he’s one of the big bosses in Brooklyn and Capone’s mentor. Story goes, Vincenzo soaked his hands in the blood of his dead father and swore revenge on the men who did it. He was good to his word too; he’s killed most of the guys responsible and he ain’t even twenty-one. Now instead of calling him Battling McGurn, they’re calling him Machine-gun McGurn. Capone brought him to Chicago to use as muscle in his outfit.”

“Wow, you’re just a fountain of information, Vinny.” Daniel, with a low half laugh, tries to keep his mind on the conversation and in the present moment.

“Yeah, well it pays to know who you’re up against. Anyways, that’s how the story goes; that’s what they say about him.” Rubbing his hands along his pant legs, Vincent continues, “I wonder what they’ll say about me after all this is said and done.”

They are quiet. Vincent thinks about posterity, and Daniel about Michael and Cherry, and the act just committed. He doesn’t want anyone saying anything about his actions, about his part in all this. He needs to move on as if none of this has ever happened and get the hell out of Chicago as quickly as possible. He needs to put all this behind him, in the past, locked away from thought with conscious effort, like the images of France. He needs to escape … or go mad.

“I’m going to have to bury Michael. Then I’m going to get out of here, Vincent.”

“Yeah, that’s best, Danny. Nobody’s playing by the rules no more. You gotta be committed or you gotta get out. Dean’s funeral will be the big one. We can bury Mick quick and quiet, and you and Jeanie and the kid can hightail it.” He looks over at Daniel. “Where do you think you’ll go? No, don’t even tell me. It’s best you just disappear without no forwarding address.”

The next few hours and days are a blur to Daniel. His mind feels numb, and grief and guilt seesaw back and forth in his gut, making him physically sick. Images return to him, mostly in dreams that seem interminable: two men dying, one in his arms, the other by his hand, their faces and bodies morphing from one to the other, begging and pleading as they die; a tarp, heavy as lead and oozing blood. He watches himself pull at the weight, his arms aching with fatigue, the shadow of dread—as real and imminent as the sound of his pounding heart—always pushing him on, relentless.

A body buried—dust to dust—beside an Irish mother, the last of an unknown country. A body left, splayed on the dirty ground like so much forgotten garbage.