“As beatings go, it was worse than I imagined,” he said. “But not half as bad as what I probably deserved.”
“What movie is that from?” I said.
“The movie of my life. By the way, the sidekick approves,” he said, gesturing around the room.
“Of what?”
“Our hideout,” he said, yawning hugely. “It’s perfect.”
Afterward he rolled over painfully, Harry snuggled closer, and the two of them were still asleep when I woke at dawn. I walked the perimeter of the Bird Cage Club, looking out every window, and discovered that a sturdy stone terrace surrounded the dome. One of the windows was a door. I wrapped myself in a blanket and stepped outside, and then I was inhaling the chill morning air. Thirty-three stories is a long way down, and I was stricken by a sense of despair that made existence seem pointless and hollow. All of the running, all of the fighting and surviving, and I still didn’t know where my family was-it occurred to me again that I might never know. Slowly, I peered over the edge of the terrace, feeling the terrifying-exciting pull to jump, to abandon earth and its disappointments, when I heard Doug mumbling, “I think Harry is sick.”
I turned to his hefty, ass-kicked form in the doorway.
He was bruised and puffy, looking very much like an enormous crushed grape.
“He’s trying to throw up but seems stuck.”
We walked inside and Doug was right, Harry was hacking and retching, his jaws working and his ribs drawn tightly to his chest. “Harry,” I said, stroking his back, and he coughed once, twice, and puked out a tiny, clear plastic tube.
“What the hell is that?” Doug said, embracing poor, panting Harry.
I picked up the slimy thing-it was the length and size of a cigarette butt-and looked at it closely. “There’s something inside,” I said, twisting it until a tiny top popped off and a tightly rolled length of paper fell into my hand. I opened it carefully and read a quickly scrawled paragraph.
In Italy, for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland, they had brotherly love. They had five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.
Beneath it, in the same handwriting, read-
Once around at noon, only on Sundays.
A wave of dizziness washed over me, my hands went numb, and the paper fluttered to the floor. I walked outside to inhale fresh air, my mind spinning but also clicking at warp speed. Doug appeared beside me, read the note, and said, “I don’t get it.”
“I think I do,” I answered, staring across the vista at Navy Pier jutting into the lake, its convention buildings, tourist boats, and Ferris wheel like a collection of children’s toys. “Is today Sunday?” I said. Doug nodded, and I thought of what Uncle Buddy said, how Harry had been hanging around my house. When I didn’t show up, the cagey little animal must’ve made his way back to the bakery, and Club Molasses, to wait for me-but how, and for how long? “I hope it’s the right Sunday,” I said.
“For what?” Doug asked anxiously.
I looked at the concern etched on his face and knew that he would do anything I asked. But just by proximity I’d drawn him nearly to the point of death, and I would not allow it to happen again. “I have to do something, and I have to do it alone. You can’t follow me or try to help me,” I said.
“Please,” he said, “I owe you.”
“I told you about the notebook. .”
“Yeah, but I want to be part of this, whatever it is.”
“Doug,” I said, summoning the ghiaccio furioso, locking eyes until his chin began to quiver. “You will not be a part of this. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, yes,” he said in a voice that was small and alone, and I saw his fear-a snippet of a movie in which Poor Kevin finished what he started with Doug in a bloody and violent way.
“The notebook,” I said, “is here, in the steel briefcase. If I don’t come back, I want you to burn it. Burn it, Doug. . every damn page, handwritten note, old photo, and unlisted phone number. It’s mine, it’s my life, and you will do as I ask.”
“Yes,” he whispered, and I looked away. Doug sighed with relief, and when he found his voice he said, “Of course I’ll do whatever you say. You’re the hero.”
“I’m no hero,” I said. “How can a victim like me be a hero?”
“According to some of the greatest movies ever made, by not becoming like the assholes who victimized you,” Doug said. “Hitting that masked creep with my computer was the right thing to do, the only thing to do, because he was trying to kill you. On the other hand, I still don’t know if what happened to Billy was justified. All I know for sure is that being smarter than an enemy is better than resorting to violence. The great hero is always more patient and much more observant. And then he. . she. . wins.” He wiped at his nose and handed me the note, saying, “Did you notice the upper-right-hand corner?” I hadn’t, and I now looked at part of a business letterhead, which read MISTER KREAMY KO- with the rest torn away. “It has to be Mister Kreamy Kone. You know, the chocolate-dipped frozen concoctions sold from the black ice cream trucks.”
“I guess I never noticed them. . I don’t eat that stuff,” I murmured, remembering what Elzy said about black ice cream trucks surrounding my house before my family disappeared.
“It’s so awesome. The truck stops, you insert money into the side like an ATM, and out pops the deliciousness. You never even see a driver. All the windows are tinted black too. Kind of weird, isn’t it?”
“Weird,” I said, thinking how the CEO of StroBisCo might have useful information about another Chicago junk-food company. Or, if it was unionized, Knuckles would have to know something-deploying strikebreakers fell under his job description. And then, of course, there was my own personal Talmud-Bible-Koran, the notebook. If Mister Kreamy Kone had even the slightest thread of a connection to the Outfit, it would be in there. Right now, however, was not the time to study; now was the time to get my mind and gut ready for what I had to do at noon.
“Is there anything else?” Doug asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “If I don’t come back, take care of Harry.”
“You have to come back,” Doug said. “We have final exams next week.”
I realized then that I hadn’t studied Italian in almost three long weeks.
I grabbed my Italian-English dictionary and looked up three words.
destino-fate
resa dei conti-reckoning
vendetta-revenge
24
By ten until noon, the cool morning sky had been replaced by a sun that shone so brightly it felt like nails being driven into my head.
There was no wind, no clouds, only light and heat.
The Technicolor blue sky looked cheap and fake, and I was tense being out in broad daylight.
I paused at the entrance to Navy Pier, watching tourists come and go carrying plastic bags full of expensive junk and eating large, sweet, colorful garbage, and then moved cautiously up the boardwalk. Twice in that short walk I was overcome by paranoia so strong that I spun in a half crouch, only to see slow-moving people with cameras and fanny packs and cotton candy. I yawned with jittery nerves, my heart beat irregularly-both signs of OD’ing on adrenaline-and I paused.
I stood inside an enormous round shadow.
I shielded my eyes and looked up.
One hundred and fifty feet in the air, the Ferris wheel crept in a slow circle.
My brother Lou is twelve, and in that time he’s probably seen his favorite movie, The Third Man, a hundred times. He has the entire film memorized, but his favorite part of all is when Holly Martins encounters his friend Harry Lime, whom he believed to be dead. Instead, it turns out that Harry faked his death and has been in hiding to escape punishment for a heinous deed. Harry doesn’t feel bad or guilty about his crime; he merely considers himself an opportunist, someone who’s made the best from a bad situation (not to mention a profit). To make the point, Harry delivers a short speech contrasting the amorality of a ruling family in Italy with that of placid Swiss democracy.