Checking quickly, I saw that it was in the chapter titled “Sfuggire-Escape.”
I flipped back and reread two words written at the top of the page.
Capone Doors.
The section was printed in a neat, blocky script and had a textbook tone to it, with the obvious goal of educating the reader. My skull still ached from the fire truck assault, and my body, shoulders to toes, creaked with the pain of falling into the bakery. I propped up pillows, stretched out on a cot, and read.
“Capone Doors were invented in 1921 by Giuseppe ‘Joe Little’ Piccolino, the chief officer of weapons and devices, and were installed in and around Chicago between 1922 and 1950. Before Joe Little’s untimely disappearance and presumed death in 1951 (see ‘Loro,’ section II, pages 3–4) he estimated that upwards of a thousand Capone Doors had been concealed in as many locations, and that despite the ongoing teardown and reconstruction of the city, many remained functional.
“It’s important to note that only the Outfit, Chicago’s venerable underworld institution, has Capone Doors; no other city than Chicago, and no other criminal organization than the Outfit, had the foresight. Because of technological marvels like these, Outfit members were the actual ‘untouchables.’
“Officially, Capone Doors are designated as escape hatches, but during Prohibition (1919–1933) the doors were instrumental in the Outfit’s domination of bootlegging and rum-running, used to import and export alcohol without detection or interference. After Prohibition was repealed, Capone Doors continued their usefulness as conduits to secret casinos and illegal sports books, as white slavery highways and sneak-thievery pathways and as rush-hour avoiders. The ownership of and access to Capone Doors was at the heart of the bloody Battuta-Strozzini Turf War of the 1970s (see ‘Nostro,’ section I, pages 9-15) that pitted the North Side of Chicago against the South Side. The dispute was settled when it was decided by ruling panel that Capone Doors were a public utility, with all members of the Outfit allowed free and unfettered access. The panel was chaired by l’amico di tutti amici, the honorable Enzo ‘the Baker’ Rispoli.”
I paused, sitting up a little.
I reread the last few lines, picturing my small, gentle, smiling grandpa.
My mind went to the memory of when he shape-shifted into Evil Grandpa, and it clicked. I sat back and continued reading.
“A boon to Capone Doors came in 1938, when the City of Chicago began to dig subway tunnels in order to supplement El trains. A far-ranging and wide-reaching system of secret tunnels already existed beneath the muddy surface of Chicago (see ‘Soldi,’ section III, page 109–113) to which Joe Little had long ago connected many Capone Doors, and it was subsequently engineered to access the subway system as well. Since that time, many an Outfit member has participated in the ultimate turnstile jump.
“Generations of Outfit members passed on the locations of Capone Doors to the next generation, but a comprehensive list was never distributed for fear that it could fall into the wrong hands on the right side of the law. As years passed, some were forgotten, others torn down, and still others built over. In Joe Little’s original blueprints, he states that ‘the key to finding a Capone Door is to imagine them everywhere, in every type of building and location, both public and private. And to train the generally unseeing eye to spot a hidden C-the button that activates the door-which will be slightly raised from the surface.’ Of course, it should be noted that this wondrous invention was named in honor of our revered founder and inspiring force, Al Capone.”
“Al Capone. A.C.,” I whispered, remembering the photo in the office of Club Molasses. I turned the page expecting to read more, but instead of the neat, blocky script, the page contained a list written in two different hands which I now recognized as my grandpa’s and great-grandpa’s. It read:
Monadnock Building, lobby, east wall
City Hall, second floor, men’s room
Edgewater Beach Hotel, Yacht Club, behind the potted palms
Green Mill Lounge, beneath the bar
Uptown National Bank, teller cage no. 5
3rd, 11th, 19th, 33rd, and 41st Ward Precinct Houses, lock-up
Henrici’s Ristorante, wine cellar
Lincoln Park Boat House, under the dock
Biograph Theater, north balcony
St. Hubert’s Grill, in the phone booth
All elevated train stations built before 1935, electrical closets
The list continued on, some locations I recognized, others I’d never heard of, but all of them surely containing (or at least at one time contained) its own personal Capone Door. I dog-eared the page so I could come back and finish, and turned to the next page. It was a new section titled “Safe Houses,” and explained how the Outfit owned dozens of hotels, homes, apartments, warehouses, and condominiums under assumed names where any member on the lam could hide out safely. This section contained a list of addresses, and I was skimming it when my eyes drooped and my chin touched my chest. I lifted the notebook and felt something odd, something hard and bumpy. I turned to the last chapter, “Volta,” flipped the pages aside, and there it was, a tarnished brass key taped to the inside back cover. I didn’t remove it, just squinted at it with heavy eyelids.
After that, I don’t remember anything until I heard a woman scream.
I jumped awake from the cot like I’d been electrified.
The notebook tumbled to the ground as the woman screamed again.
I rolled to the floor, crawled to the window, carefully pulled back the sun-streaming blinds, and looked down into the boxing ring where Ski Mask Guy was sprawled on his back, plaid rumpled suit still buttoned, tie askew. Across from him, Willy bobbed and weaved with fists cocked, ready to deliver another Sunday punch. Ski Mask Guy got to his feet and shook his head, adjusting his mask and his bulk. The lumbering goon had his back to me and was pointing at Willy while, from somewhere unseen, a woman shrilled, “Lucky punch. Okay, two lucky punches, you cockroach! For the last time, give up the girl or get ready to meet Jesus!”
Willy pushed his glasses up on his nose, spit through the ropes, and said, “Bring it, sissy boy.”
I craned my neck, looking around the gym for the woman, and then a flash of bodies drew my eyes back to the ring as Ski Mask Guy lunged like a Frankenstein monster. Willy ducked and delivered a one-two kidney punch that doubled him over, followed by a surgically precise left hook to the chin that put the freak on his back again.
Ski Mask Guy cried out in pain.
It was high-pitched and feminine.
It was the same voice I’d heard only a second ago, and it was his.
I watched as the giant lunkhead lay prone on the canvas, seemingly unconscious, and remembered the sugary voice from the mini-camera tape. I’d assumed there was a woman present then, too, but that high-pitched tone belonged to Ski Mask Guy, and it only made him creepier. The fact that he was not Uncle Buddy was no comfort; it only affirmed what I’d been dreading, that there really were three different people out to get me-a turncoat uncle, a faceless freak, and a corrupt cop with a stable of officers at her command. Quietly, then louder, Ski Mask Guy began to giggle girlishly, and then he leaped to his feet with alarming agility. Willy crouched, hands set, but Ski Mask Guy reached out in hyper-speed and grabbed Willy’s left arm, yanked and twisted, and I heard old bone crack.