CHAPTER 29

I was half a block from the Beef when the Chicago mob stuck its foot into my life. They did it via a note tucked under my windshield wiper: “Come in for a cannoli.”

I looked up. At the corner of Superior and Franklin, under the El tracks where they like to film ER, sits a shack of a coffee shop called Brett’s. In the front window was a guy named Joey Palermo. He lifted an espresso cup my way. I stuffed the note in my pocket and headed over.

“Vinnie needs to speak with you,” Joey said.

“What, no hello?”

Palermo was a high-level hitter for Chicago’s capo di capi, Vinnie DeLuca. I knew Joey from my days as a cop. Big guy. Nice guy. Could crush your larynx like a Dixie cup and offer a sincere apology as you choked to death at his tasseled and loafered feet.

“The boss says it’s a matter of some importance. Shouldn’t take more than a half hour.”

Joey held open the front door to Brett’s. I followed him out. The cannolis didn’t look all that good anyway.