Chapter 3 - The Shadow of the Outfit
The engine of the black sedan ticked as it cooled in the subterranean garage beneath Moretti’s headquarters on Archer Avenue. The air down here always smelled of damp concrete, gasoline, and the faint, sweet decay of the river three blocks over.
Vincent sat in the back seat for two full minutes after Bruno killed the ignition, the dark interior illuminated only by the faint, amber glow of the dashboard clock.
11:42 PM.
Marcone was going to be waiting at Il Moro, the white-tablecloth Italian joint on Grand Avenue where the back room smelled of expensive truffles and cheap cologne. Marcone didn't like being kept waiting any more than he liked finding out that the manila envelope he was expecting was five hours late and damp around the edges from a puddle behind a dry cleaner's.
"You want me to send a car for the kid's mother?" Bruno asked from the front seat, his fingers drumming a slow, heavy tattoo against the steering wheel. "Just to make sure she keeps her mouth shut? Ten grand is a lot of loose talk waiting to happen, boss. Even if she gave it back. People like that—they talk to the wrong people at the laundry mat, the next thing you know, the papers are asking questions about why Moretti's couriers are dropping envelopes in the rain."
Vincent turned his head slowly, his eyes catching the amber light. There was no anger in his face—just a cold, flat emptiness that usually preceded someone losing the ability to chew solid food.
"She didn't keep it, Bruno."
"People do strange things when they're starving, boss. Maybe she’s playing a long game."
"Did you see her coat?" Vincent asked softly.
Bruno blinked, nonplussed. "Her coat? I was looking at the alley, boss. I didn't check the woman's wardrobe."
"It was cotton. Frayed at the cuffs. No lining. In November in Chicago." Vincent reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the manila envelope. The paper was slightly warped along the bottom edge where it had rested against the wet asphalt for three seconds before Sophie grabbed it. "A woman who’s playing a long game doesn't hand ten thousand dollars back to a stranger in an alley because her kid told her it wasn't right. She takes the money, buys a winter coat, and moves to Cicero by nightfall."
"So what do you want to do? Send flowers?" Bruno’s voice carried a dry, disbelieving rasp. "Marcone’s got his thumb on the docks by midnight. You’re late already."
"Drive," Vincent said.
The restaurant was quiet when they walked in. Il Moro was closed on Tuesdays to the public, but the front windows were dark for a different reason—Marcone liked the privacy. The waiters didn't look up when Vincent and Bruno entered; they stayed near the service hatch, their eyes fixed on the salt shakers on the empty tables near the front.
Sal Marcone was sitting in the corner booth—the big one with the red leather upholstery that looked like it had been salvaged from an old Packard. He was a thick-necked man with slicked-back gray hair and fingers covered in heavy gold rings that clicked against his water glass like miniature hammers.
"You're late, Vincent," Marcone said without looking up from his plate of veal scaloppine. "In our line of work, being late isn't just rude. It's an expense."
Vincent didn't sit down. He walked up to the table, pulled the manila envelope from his coat, and dropped it onto the white tablecloth with a heavy, wet thud. A small circle of dark moisture immediately bloomed through the linen beneath the bottom corner.
Marcone stopped chewing. His eyes dropped to the envelope, then slowly tracked up to Vincent's face. A slow, oily smile spread across his thick lips, revealing teeth that were just a little too yellow to be natural.
"What's this? Water damage?" Marcone reached out with one fat, ring-adorned hand, hooked his finger under the flap, and pulled it open just enough to see the neat, banded stacks of fifty-dollar bills inside. He whistled softly through his teeth. "Looks like it took a swim. What happened, Moretti? Did one of your boys drop it in the canal?"
"A kid found it," Vincent said.
Marcone paused, his fingers still tucked into the flap. "A kid?"
"On South State Street."
Marcone let out a short, wet bark of laughter that didn't reach his eyes. "You're getting sloppy, Vincent. Leaving paper lying around on the sidewalk like kids dropping candy wrappers. Who was it? One of your cousin's kids?"
"A stranger." Vincent pulled out the chair opposite Marcone and sat down, his movements deliberate and slow. He didn't take off his coat. The wool was still damp, sending a faint, earthy chill into the air between them. "An eight-year-old girl. Her mother works the double shift at the diner near the rail yards."
Marcone stared at him for three seconds, his smile flattening out into a thin, hard line. "And?"
"And she gave it back."
"Of course she gave it back," Marcone sneered, sliding the envelope toward himself and tapping it twice with a heavy knuckle. "She's a kid. She didn't know what it was. Probably thought it was coupons for dry cleaning."
"She knew," Vincent said, his voice dropping an octave until it filled the small space between them with a weight that made Marcone’s smile vanish entirely. "She knew it wasn't hers. And her mother wouldn't take a finder's fee either. Not two hundred. Not a thousand. Nothing."
Marcone leaned back into the red leather, his eyes narrowing as he studied Vincent's face—searching for the joke, the angle, the hidden leverage that always accompanied anything Moretti did. When he found nothing—only the cold, flat slate of a man who had spent forty years looking at the underside of humanity and had just found something he couldn't categorize—Marcone's expression turned sour.
May you like
"Must be nice," Marcone muttered, picking up his fork again and jabbing it into a piece of veal. "Having morals so cheap they don't even cost you ten grand. But idealism doesn't pay the dock union, Vincent. And it sure as hell doesn't keep the Feds off our backs."
Vincent didn't answer. He sat watching the dark water ring slowly expand across the white linen tablecloth, listening to the muffled hum of the kitchen exhaust fan in the back, thinking of a yellow raincoat that was two sizes too big and a pair of canvas sneakers with a wet lace trailing in the gutter.
