We’re meeting with the Griffins today to talk about the South Shore development.
We meet at The Brass Anchor, which has become our regular spot, since that first night where Papa and Fergus Griffin had to negotiate on neutral ground to avoid an all-out war.
We all waited in our cars that night, Papa and Fergus approaching each other in front of the double doors, stiff and formal. Today the mood is completely different. Papa shakes hands with Fergus like he does with all his old friends, gripping Fergus’s elbow with his opposite hand, then clapping him hard on the shoulder as he releases him.
“You’re looking well, Fergus,” Papa says. “Tell me how you never age. Is there formaldehyde in that Irish whiskey?”
“I hope not. Gray hairs are good for business,” Fergus says, smiling. “Nobody trusts a young man.”
“That’s not what I hear,” Papa says, turning to shake Callum’s hand, too. “I hear you’re getting all kinds of things done.”
“Yes, we are,” Callum says.
The other half of that “we” isn’t Fergus—it’s Aida, my baby sister. She kisses Papa on both cheeks.
I never thought I’d see the day, but Aida actually looks really fucking professional. She’s wearing a man’s dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tucked into high-waisted trousers. She’s got on heels, and earrings, and even a little swipe of lip gloss. It’s not totally conventional, but she looks chic.
“What the hell is this?” I say, letting her kiss me on the cheek as well. “Where’re your sneakers?”
“Oh, I’ve still got ‘em,” Aida says, tipping me a wink. “If you want to race me.”
“I do like racing,” I say.
Aida’s eyes gleam. “Got any good stories for me?” she says.
She’s been down to the street races a few times. I never let her use my car. That would be like handing a spear gun to Jason Voorhees—it’s just begging for mayhem.
“Bella Page tried to race Camille Rivera,” I tell her.
“I don’t like Bella,” Aida says, making a face.
“Who would?”
“I dunno. Maybe those people who like eating weapons-grade hot sauce.”
“Masochists,” I say.
“Right.” She grins. “So what happened?”
“Bella almost rolled her G-Wagon.”
“Ugh! Can’t believe I missed that. Who’s the girl that won?”
“Camille?”
“Yeah.”
“Her dad owns that auto shop on Wells.”
“Hm. Is she a friend of yours?” Aida says, her sharp eyes scanning my face.
Goddamnit. Aida is like a heat-seeking missile. If there’s some information you’re trying to hide from her, she’ll hone in on it with breathtaking precision, then hound it out of you.
And I’m not even hiding anything. There’s nothing to tell.
“I sort of know her,” I say.
“In the biblical sense?” Aida teases me, in her most annoying and persistent way.
“No.”
“A girl you haven’t slept with? What, does she have three eyes? No teeth? What’s the problem?”
Jesus Christ. I’ve already given Aida too much ammunition.
The truth is that Camille isn’t my type at all. But I sort of felt like we might be becoming friends—a little bit. I kind of liked her. And I don’t like anybody. I barely like my own family. In fact, right now, I’m only 50/50 on Aida.
So it was a new thing for me, feeling like hanging around with Camille wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Then she was so weird in the parking garage. I couldn’t tell if she liked me or hated me, if she wanted me to touch her or didn’t. So I defaulted to what I always do with women, when I want them to shut the fuck up. I kissed her.
And here’s the weirdest part of all. The kiss was . . . good.
With a lot of girls, there’s a kind of mechanical routine to sex. They want to go through their list of tricks, like a show pony. And a lot of what they do is so fucking fake. When they ride on top of you, they’re posing the whole time, demanding you look at them and acknowledge their hotness. And they’re not hot. They’re needy and pathetic. I want to get what I want out of them, as quickly as possible, so I can be alone again.
Before the sex there’s the clumsy flirting. And after the sex there’s the whining and clinging. I go through the rotation of blondes, brunettes, and redheads. But in the end, they’re all the same, and I feel hollow afterward. Spent but not really satisfied.
Kissing Camille was different. She smelled like motor oil, gasoline, and soap—all my favorite scents. Her mouth wasn’t all slicked up with lipstick. I could taste her lips and her tongue. They had a mellow sweetness, under the spice of the malt liquor—like vanilla. Barely noticeable at first but lingering pleasantly.
The way she kissed was different, too. She seemed like she was exploring me, trying me out. At one point I saw that her eyes were open, looking at my face. Which should have been off-putting, but it wasn’t. Her eyes were big and dark and curious. Like we had invented something new, that nobody in the world had tried before, and she didn’t want to miss a moment of it.
All of those things were odd and confusing to me.
I don’t want to share any of it with Aida. But every millisecond I hesitate, she’s ferreting out the meaning behind my silence. So I have to say something.
“I’m glad to see that getting married hasn’t matured you any,” I tell her. “Except for the clothes.”
Aida grins. “Kinda seems like you’re trying to change the subject with a personal attack . . .”
“Aida,” I snarl, “If you don’t get off my ass, I’m gonna—”
We’re interrupted by Papa, who’s finished the small-talk part of this meeting.
“Coming inside?” he says to me.
I’m about to say, “Gladly.” Then I spot a man on the sidewalk, leaning up against a lamp post. He’s wearing sunglasses, but it’s pretty clear that he’s looking right at us. He’s got blond hair buzzed short on the sides, a square jaw, and an athletic build. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Still, there’s something in the arrogant posture and the clean-cut grooming that makes me think cop.
“Go on ahead,” I say to my father. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”
He glances over to the man, then nods.
“See you in a minute,” he says.
The others file into the restaurant. I wait until they’re inside, then I stride toward our Peeping Tom. I’m thinking he’ll spook and leave. Instead, he stays exactly where he is, arms folded, a little smirk on his face.
“How can I help you, Officer?” I say, as I draw close.
He grins. “Oh, I was just wondering how your car was doing after you put it through its paces last night.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I was home all night.”
“You should get a less distinctive vehicle if you want to use that line.”
I shrug. “There’s a lot of Mustangs in the city. Do you have a plate number for the vehicle in question?”
I’ve already swapped my plates out. I did it the minute I got home. I’ve got dozens of spare license plates, none of which can be linked to my name.
“You’ve caught my attention a couple times this year,” the cop says, his sunglasses like blank bug eyes staring at me.
“Is this an interrogation, or are you trying to hit on me?” I say.
“That’s cute.” The cop’s not smiling anymore. “You Gallos think you can do whatever you want in this city. Your brother gets arrested for murder, breaks out of Cook County Jail, and then somehow gets his charges dropped a few weeks later? I’ve got news for you. Not every cop has their hand in the cookie jar. Some of us actually care about getting you greedy fucking gangsters locked up where you belong—in a cage, with the other animals.”
“Oh, you’re a clean cop?” I say. “Kinda sounds like a friendly mosquito or a gourmet Twinkie. I’m not sure it exists; I’ve sure as shit never seen it.”
He smiles again. It looks like a dog baring its teeth.
“Just know you’re on notice, Nero. I like a fair game, so I’m giving you a warning. I’m watching you. If you step one fucking toe over the line, I’ll be there to clap the cuffs on you. And you won’t be slipping out of them like your brother did.”
“If this is an example of your surveillance skills, I’m not worried,” I scoff.
“This is me telling you exactly what’s going to happen. And it’ll happen anyway. Because that’s what you sleazy, arrogant shitheads can’t seem to comprehend. You’re always going to lose in the end. There’s more of us than there is of you. We’re smarter, better trained, better funded. I’ve got the whole city behind me. But you’ll keep breaking the fuckin’ law anyway. You don’t know anything else. You can’t be anything else.”
“Huh, maybe you’re right,” I say, nodding slowly. “But you sit behind a desk filling out incident reports for $65K a year. While I’m sipping champagne at parties with your boss. So I guess I’ll take my chances.”
I saunter away from him, still feeling his stare boring into my back.
When I join the others in the restaurant, my father says, “Who was that?”
“Some cop.”
“What did he want?”
“To inform me that he suspects that our family may, at some point, have been involved in illegal activity. Apparently, the police frown on that.”
Papa is not amused. He scowls, his thick gray eyebrows drawing together over his broad nose.
“Did something happen last night?” he demands.
Fuck, he’s worse than Aida. Every one of them is like a bloodhound, sniffing out weakness.
“No,” I lie.
“Find out who he is and what he actually wants,” my father says.
“I will.”
With that, we return to the discussion of the Steel Works property. Fergus Griffin admits that he’s had his eye on it for a while.
“It’s going to require an insane amount of capital. Plus every favor we’ve ever been owed,” he says.
“If I was mayor, I could get it done,” Callum says.
“Williams is up for reelection in eight months,” Papa says.
“Hard to beat the incumbent,” Fergus says.
“Not impossible, though,” Aida says.
“I’ve only been Alderman for a year,” Callum steeples his fingers. “It’s a big jump.”
“The campaign will be expensive.” Fergus frowns. “The Russians cleaned out our cash reserves.”
“We’re short at the moment, too. We splashed out big on the Oak Street Tower. Won’t see the return until it’s all leased out,” Papa says.
“We might need to bring in another partner,” Fergus says.
“The Braterstwo?” Callum says.
His father flinches. He hasn’t quite accustomed himself to the fact that Mikolaj Wilk, the Braterstwo boss, kidnapped and married his youngest daughter.
“Perhaps,” Fergus says stiffly.
“We’ll look at our options,” Papa says.
The meeting wraps up quickly.
As I’m driving Papa home, he says, “Catch your brother up on everything we talked about.”
Dante handles all the projects we already have in the works, while the rest of us are scheming to add more work to his plate.
I’ll summarize for Dante. And then I’ll ask him what he thinks about my idea for getting capital.
I’ve got no interest in trying to bring other investors on board. If we need money, we should get it the old-fashioned way—by stealing it.
As that cop reminded me, we are gangsters after all.
