Embers & Ash (10 page)

Knuckles swallowed the obscenity that must have been tickling his throat. He'd taken a risk proposing we sidestep Outfit protocol; now that he'd been outvoted, he needed to secure his position. “I want to make it clear,” he growled, “that I had no intention of . . . displacing, so to speak . . . Lucky, as boss. I'm just as loyal to him as the both of you! My suggestion was in the best interest of business, and if I hear otherwise, if rumors are whispered about this meeting, I'll dispute it using every weapon in my arsenal.” He sat back and chewed the cigar. “Besides, if we're going to keep fighting this damn war, every one of us needs my boys on the front line, with me leading 'em.”

“It's confidential,” Tyler said, grinning slightly. “You have my word.”

“That and a plugged nickel will buy me Wrigley Field.” Knuckles snorted.

“You have my word, too,” I said. “If I say it, you know that I mean it.”

Knuckles paused and nodded curtly. After a few formalities, he rolled across the roof and was gone. Tyler turned his face to the lake breeze and exhaled, relieved, I supposed, that the old killer had left us. Without his knowing it, Tyler's support for my position had helped me tremendously, preserving my relationship with Lucky and withholding more power from Elzy.

It made me want to thank him, but to my surprise, he thanked me first.

WITHOUT TAKING HIS EYES FROM THE LAKE,
he said, “I mean it. I'm totally grateful.”

“Okay, well . . . you're welcome,” I said, “but for what?”

He turned to me. “For reminding me to take Lucky's side. It's dangerous for
anyone
in the Oufit not to support him, but especially us. A black guy in charge of Money and a woman serving as counselor? Everyone,
including
Lucky, already regards us as second-class citizens. Besides, Knuckles is a devious old bastard. After what he did to my parents . . .” He shook his head, saying, “Who knows if his plan was even real? What if we'd agreed to it and then he double-crossed us, said it was our idea, that we were planning a coup?”

“Even if it's real, we can't afford to oppose Lucky,” I said. “He's old and he may be sick but he's still . . . Lucky.”

“In name only,” Tyler said. “My dad tried to explain to me once what it meant to be the boss of the Outfit and it didn't sound like the luckiest job in the world. Never sure who you can trust, constantly looking over your shoulder for a knife in the back.”

“Comes with a lot of power, though, and a ton of cash,” I said, “if you're willing to sell your soul.”

“I asked him once, my dad, if he was ever chosen boss, would he do it.”

“What did he say?”

Tyler half smiled, a little sadly, green eyes crinkling at the edges. “Yeah, but only if he could neutralize all his enemies inside the Outfit, which is impossible, since even friends are enemies. Money makes it that way. Everyone wants what everyone else has.”

“Not me,” I said.

“Me neither,” Tyler said, placing a hand on my shoulder, strong and warm. “Look, we have to support each other in this thing. Speaking of backs, you watch mine and I'll watch yours. Okay?”

“Absolutely,” I said with relief.

“Hey, remember the movie we watched on the plane?”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever need my help, or if something's really important, that will be our personal code word.”

“Shawshank?”

“Shawshank,” he said with a nod and a smile, and then his gaze hardened. “You know what I wish? That the Outfit never existed. I mean, I understand why my dad didn't defect. It's a spiderweb, and once you're in, they won't let you out. I take my duties seriously because I have no choice . . .”

“Me too. Exactly.”

“. . . and don't get me wrong, it comes with perks, so it's not like I'm suffering. As the next Strozzini in line, even being black, it was inevitable that I'd get the job. But having it happen the way it did, being so young. It was a surprise, you know?”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And so damn confusing. All of a sudden, I had this responsibility and power,” he said quietly. “Not really sure what to feel other than—”

“Trapped?” I said.

“Hatred,” Tyler replied coldly. “My dad told me once that the Outfit runs on hatred, and that the only way to survive is to hate it back.”

“No problem here.”

“In a perfect world, I'd walk away from it,” he said, “far away.”

“If that perfect world ever happens, I'll go with you.”

“Then I guess we're not going anywhere together,” he said, “unless you want to give Rome another shot.” He was smiling differently now, charming and a little sad.

“Maybe someday,” I said. “I'm just . . . so busy . . .”

“I know, I know,” he answered, extending an arm. “I'll settle for walking you to the elevator.”

“Done,” I said, hooking his elbow.

We rode down quickly and stepped onto the sidewalk. “Be careful out there. I need your eyes on my back,” he said with a wink, kissing me on the cheek.

“Me too,” I said, watching him walk to the curb, where a sleek black car had pulled up. He waved once, got inside, and disappeared.

I glanced at my phone—7:42 a.m.

Just enough time to get to Fep Prep before homeroom.

I hurried down the sidewalk and climbed into the Lincoln with the hope that traffic wasn't too heavy. Being on time for school was strictly enforced at Fep Prep (as Mr. Novak would say,
Don't hesitate and don't be late, or detention, my friend, will be your fate
) and I headed toward Lake Shore Drive.

The southbound morning commute had begun and it was already thick with people going to work in the Loop. I had moved past a station wagon and around a minivan, and was traveling at a fair clip when a school bus came up alongside of me.

The little kids threw me off.

I glanced at the two in each seat, and turned away until my paranoid gut screamed,
Anything is possible!
The bus edged nearer and when I looked again, those kids were actually large, crouching men in crimson-tinted goggles.

It was an
oh-shit!
moment followed by rapid acceleration.

The bus swerved in behind me, flying like a huge yellow torpedo. I wove through traffic, trying to shake it off and get distance between us. The big vehicle moved with disturbing speed, sticking to my bumper, coming even closer, and then it hit the Lincoln with a jarring blow. I flew forward in my seat, squeezing the steering wheel, and it hit me again—trying to cause an accident? It could work, taking my car out of commission with more than enough guys to subdue me, maybe even another vehicle nearby. I had to get off the drive, try to escape through narrow side streets where the bus would be forced to slow down. I gunned it toward the nearest exit ramp. Angry horns and screeching tires warned me that the Russians were following my lead. I veered onto North Avenue, blowing through a red light and barely avoiding a collision as two cars coming from opposite directions squealed to a halt in the intersection behind me.

The bus didn't pause, smashing through them, sending the cars spinning out of its way as it continued after me.

I leaned on the gas, squealed onto Clark Street, and slalomed in and out of too much traffic. Eyes flicking from the windshield to the rearview mirror, I watched the bus gaining speed, coming inches from plowing down a motorcyclist, swerving wildly around the poor guy, and then it was behind me again. I had a choice—continue up Clark Street into even heavier traffic or slide to the right, down Lincoln Park West—and I went right, careening past a pair of bicycle cops who could only watch openmouthed as I sped by with the bus on my tail. I knew now that city streets had been a stupid idea, there were too many obstacles; I had to get back on Lake Shore Drive and head north, away from the commuters, where traffic would be light and the road open. Ahead, at Fullerton Avenue, a car idled patiently at another red light, suddenly green, and it slowly turned onto Fullerton. With no time to wait, I made a wide, stuttering right turn around it, and flew down Fullerton back to the drive.

In back of me, far too close, came the thunderous blast of the bus's horn, as it, too, went around the car.

The speed limit on Fullerton was twenty-five miles per hour, which I tripled, howling past the Lincoln Park reservoir and hanging a murderous left onto the Lake Shore Drive on-ramp with the bus only a few feet behind.

Gears grinding and brakes shrieking, it went onto two wheels, and then no wheels.

I watched in the rearview as it flipped into a toppling roll, smashing into the underpass wall. It creaked once and settled onto all four blown tires, motionless and smoking.

I drove away, free and breathing.

• • •

Doug was at his desk when I entered homeroom. “How was the lasagna?” he said.

“There was a bus full of Russians,” I said, still shaking a little. “I barely made it.”

He bit his lip, eyes worried, as Ms. Stein took attendance and made announcements. Then the bell rang. In the hallway, he gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. “You okay?”

“It was close. Too damn close,” I said with a nervy shudder. “Anyway, it's the lasagna that matters.”

“Tell me about it during Classic Movie Club. We're watching
Amarcord.
There are parts in it we can talk through without missing a damn thing.”

Mrs. Ishikawa had set third period as our club time at the beginning of the year; it was only a couple of hours away but that wasn't the problem. I shook my head. “Gina, remember? We can't discuss it in front of her.”

“And I have a mandatory study session during lunch,” he said.

“After school, then.”

“You mean after Novak,” he said.

I nodded and turned down the hallway. The rest of the day crept past. After the final bell, walking toward the meeting, I was hit with the familiar sense of guilt that accompanies a trip to the principal's office whether you've done anything wrong or not. There's just something about turning the doorknob that feels like doom is waiting on the other side.

Instead it was Doug, waiting in a chair, twiddling his thumbs.

Mr. Novak's secretary looked up, said nothing, and nodded me into a chair, too.

“How was Aunt Betty?” he whispered.

“Hideous, as usual,” I answered just as quietly.

“Candi?”

“It was just business. Mostly,” I whispered, looking at the framed portraits lining the wall—the president, the mayor of Chicago, a painting of old Casimir Fepinsky himself on horseback wearing a Polish military uniform and thick sideburns—and seeing not one woman among them. I sighed and glanced at Mr. Novak's secretary, catching her eye as she looked away, and knew she'd been inspecting me over her computer.

“Very good!” Mr. Novak said, standing in his office doorway. “Right on time for our powwow! Come in, Douglas . . . Sally Jane.”

I considered correcting him, shrugged it off, and followed him inside with Doug behind me.

Mr. Novak edged around his desk, sat with his stubby legs crossed, and cradled his fingers behind his head. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said. “My casa is your casa.” I looked around the office crowded with memorabilia—little figurines with their thumbs up, photos of Mr. Novak posing with students making the sign, even a framed Cubs jersey stitched with
Thumbs-Up Novak.
“What you see here is a lifetime in education,” he said proudly, as his phone buzzed. He leaned forward, lifted it from the cradle, and said, “Novak here!” He listened for a moment and a smile creased his chubby cheeks. He spun around, his back to us, and spoke in a low tone, saying, “Of course I'm happy you called. Oh, don't be like that . . . Yes . . . Yes, Bootsie . . .”

Doug turned to me and mouthed,
Bootsie?

“. . . Me too. Until then,” Mr. Novak murmured, then he turned and replaced the phone. He straightened his tie, a loud, tropical number adorned with palm trees and coconuts, and said, “Now then. Why are we meeting today?”

“Because you told us to be here?” I said.

Mr. Novak shook his head. “It's because . . . ,” he said, lifting his eyebrows, making them dance, “Fep Prep is . . . ?”

Doug shrugged slowly and said, “Us?”

“Pre-cisely!” Mr. Novak said, slapping the desk. “Fep Prep is
us.
And making sure it's the best school in Chicago is the responsibility of every educator and student here.” He opened a folder, studied its contents, and moved his gaze to me. “
Every
student . . . even a serial nonparticipant like yourself. Your attendance record has been a little spotty, and to date, you have not one team, charity, or academic competition.”

“I founded the Classic Movie Club,” I said feebly.

He shot me a thumbs-up. “Kudos for that. It's a great start. But otherwise, you've been largely invisible during your time at Fep Prep.”

“I'm busy . . . outside of school,” I said, uttering the mother of all understatements.

“We all have lives beyond these hallowed halls, my dear, but that's no excuse,” he said. “If it will help, I'd be happy to call your parents and talk about your schedule.”

“No, thank you,” I answered, as calmly as possible, thinking of a phone ringing in our empty house on Balmoral Avenue. With all my might, I wished he would shift his focus to Doug, who'd become small and unnoticeable in the classic please-don't-let-him-call-on-me posture. “I'll do more,” I said, “
participate
more.”

This time it was a double thumbs-up. “
Wunderbar!
Now, for the good of Fep Prep, you and your partner will lead a group of freshmen on a field trip to the Skydeck atop the Willis—or as it was called in my day, Sears—Tower. You'll present a short talk to them about the history of the building, and then you'll mingle with your classmates. That's how mentoring is born! How does that sound?”

“Awesome,” I said, forcing a smile of my own.

“Super awesome!” he replied. “The view from a hundred and three stories is a wowzer. I'll accompany you and the group one week from today. And I expect you to be
fully
prepared, yes?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“I'll make a participant out of you yet, Sally Jane! Today the Willis Tower, tomorrow, glee club! Becau-u-u-se . . ,” he said playfully, drawing out the syllables.

I stared at him, trying to read his mind.

“Fep Prep is us,” Doug said robotically.

Mr. Novak slapped his desk. “You guys rock! Now get the heck out of here!”

We did, without hesitation, hurrying from the office, down the hallway, and outside. The meeting had lasted long enough for most kids to have vacated the school yard, with only a few stragglers loitering on the sidewalk. I heard the lighter snap and smelled smoke as Doug stood next to me, lighting a cigarette. “I'll tell you something about that guy”—he coughed—“he's got enough school spirit to choke a pig.”

“I don't need it, Doug. More scrutiny at school, blowing valuable time on field trips,” I said. “You know what I really need?”