And then I faced another equally puzzling question.
What exactly does one wear to a Mafia sit-down?
I went conservative in all black-skirt, blouse, boots-and at ten until noon on an overcast Saturday stood outside an ancient skyscraper.
CURRENCY EXCHANGE BUILDING was etched in stone over the entrance, with the year it was built, 1926.
It was tall, thin, sooty, and smudged, its general neglect indicating that no currency had been exchanged there in a very long time.
For fine arts class at Fep Prep, we took a tour of architecturally significant buildings in the Loop and learned that Chicago was the birthplace of the skyscraper. Structural steel allowed buildings to climb high into the sky, just as the Currency Exchange Building did, far beyond the El tracks that nearly touched the old building’s filthy facade. Many old Chicago structures had been renovated to perfection, but the one I stared at now seemed to have been forgotten. Maybe it was the building’s location-jammed into a crowded and not beautiful stretch of Wells Street between Washington and Madison with the train rumbling past, fat purple pigeons pecking at litter, and people rushing by without even seeing it. And then I realized that was the point-it was right there, hiding in plain sight-and I noticed something odd. The address of the building on one side was Forty-Three North Wells and the address on the other side was Forty-Five North Wells, but the Currency Exchange Building, squeezed between them, had no address at all.
Yep, I thought, this has got to be the place.
I remembered the instruction to avoid the main entrance and enter through an adjoining barbershop. It must have been an out-of-date entry in the notebook; the business next door was a shabby carryout with a pigeon-crapped awning that read PHUN HO-TO GO! I entered a cramped space with a bored-looking guy in a greasy apron staring at something Asian on TV. I tried the women’s room door but it was locked, so I approached the counter.
“Excuse me,” I said. “May I use the restroom?”
Without looking away from the TV, the guy threw a thumb over his shoulder.
A sign tacked to the wall read NO PAY. NO PEE.
A few minutes later I was in possession of a bag of egg rolls and a key. I paused, remembering being chased by cops at the North Avenue Beach House, and how I would’ve been screwed if I had chosen the women’s shower. It didn’t seem to have occurred to Joe Little, the inventor of the Capone Doors, that a woman would ever need to use one. The counter guy wasn’t watching, so I slipped into the men’s, which contained a sink and an old-time porcelain urinal. I looked closely at its faded logo-Chicago Hygienic Inc.-with the C in “Chicago” slightly raised. I wasn’t thrilled about touching it, so I used a paper towel, gave it a push, and the porcelain pissoire slid smoothly sideways, revealing a dimly lit alcove. I stepped inside, hearing the urinal thunk back into place. Before me hung a steel elevator cage that looked as if it had been hewn from black lace. It had three buttons-Up, Down, and Garage. Figuring a place called the “Bird Cage Club” had to be up, I pushed that button. Something clanked and whirred, and I rose skyward. I was almost there when I heard a thick wet cough above me, the elevator stopped, and through the cage I saw Knuckles in his Scamp.
“Welcome to the Bird Cage Club,” he hacked. “Best views in the city.”
I stepped into a circular room, which must have been the dome of the building. The beams were constructed of the same black, spidery steel as the elevator. The round walls, which were all glass, displayed incredible views of the Loop and far beyond, all the way to the lake. A bar clad in black leather stood against a wall, but there was no other furniture. The floor was made of white octagon tiles, and besides a large, round, raised platform in the center of the room, it contained nothing but Knuckles and me.
Or so I thought.
I heard someone else clear his throat politely.
I looked over at a man with his back to me, and my heart punched my chest when he turned and smiled.
He had thick black hair and deep green eyes, skin the color of smooth copper, and thick black eyebrows that arced when he saw me. He was as tall as Max, with broad shoulders that fit perfectly into a tailored suit, and his smile was warm and confident. More surprisingly, he was barely older than me. There was something familiar about him and I couldn’t help myself, I said, “You. . look like that actor, from that movie. . he was a pirate, I think.”
“You too,” he said, inspecting me with the same intensity. “Not a pirate, I mean. No, you look just like. .”
“A young Sophia Loren,” Knuckles said, lighting a cigar. “I noticed it right off. Except maybe around the nose area. You got a little extra real estate there, kid.”
“Actually, you’re better looking than her,” he said with a smile, and my heart punched me again. “So you’re her? The Rispoli?”
“Sara Jane,” I said, my tongue feeling thick and dopey.
“Tyler,” he said, taking my hand. “Tyler Strozzini. Sorry to hear your dad is sick, but it’s cool to meet you.”
“What kind of an Italian kid is called Tyler?” Knuckles mumbled.
“This from a guy who derives his nickname from finger parts,” Tyler said, grinning. “The answer is, a kid who’s half Italian and half African American.” He turned to Knuckles and said, “That probably didn’t fly in your day, huh, old man?”
“The Outfit has always been an equal opportunity organization,” Knuckles said primly. “Except for broads, of course.”
“Sorry if I’m being rude,” I said. “But aren’t you a little young to be VP of Money for the Outfit and the CEO of StroBisCo?”
“I’m seventeen. How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“And yet here you are.” He smiled. “How did that happen?”
“Just. . odd circumstances,” I said.
“Same with me,” Tyler said. “My dad held both positions before me, and my grandfather before him. I knew I was next in line, I just didn’t think it would happen so soon. But then my parents were killed in a plane piloted by my dad. He was a really skilled flier, had logged thousands of hours. But, to use your term,” he said, shooting Knuckles a look that was unfiltered hatred, “they crashed under odd circumstances.”
“Real tragedy,” Knuckles murmured. “Then again, your old man was even slower paying my guys than you are.” He looked at his hands, whistling and inspecting his crusty old nails.
The bad blood between them was so thick that it smothered the conversation.
Tyler turned to the window to cool off, and Knuckles continued his cuticle exam.
I realized then that Tyler and I were members of an unusual and exclusive club-we were Outfit kids. Although I’d only recently learned of the organization, it was undeniable that the Outfit was woven into my personal history and DNA. Doug accepted the existence of the Outfit, and the reality of my surreal life, from a dramatic and historical perspective. But Tyler lived it. Yeah, he was cute-my heart did mini backflips when he looked at me with those green eyes-and if anyone could offer me guidance on how to live two separate lives, it was him. I would never tell anyone that my family was missing, the danger was simply too great, but if circumstances were different, Tyler was the one person who would understand what I was going through.
He broke the silence, saying, “So, your dad ever bring you up here?”
“Uh. . the Bird Cage Club, you mean? No. . he didn’t.”
“Kept it a secret, huh? Just like my old man used to do. . always held something back, just in case.” He grinned slyly, showing perfect teeth, and said, “Did you even know about it? Your great-grandfather Nunzio took a hundred-year lease on it from my great-grandfather. It’s not up for another ten years or so.”