The notebook contains a phone number that was answered at police headquarters.
I said, “J. Edgar Hoover wore women’s underwear.”
There was a pause, then a voice asked what I needed.
I told him, computer keys clicked, and he muttered a meeting place.
I knew him by his lunch-he told me to look for a guy in Daley Plaza near the Picasso eating peanut butter from a jar. He was a classic mole, a bland-looking Outfit lifer who had burrowed into the police department as a records clerk with access to the department’s vast computer network full of information about everything. No, he explained, there was no record whatsoever of a Chicago police detective named Dorothy Smelt. I told him other cops had worked for her, someone must know something, and he paused, working peanut butter from the roof of his mouth, and lowered a hand slowly in front of his face from his forehead to his chin, as if lowering a curtain. I have since come to understand that in the secret sign language of police, it means no one knows anything, no one saw anything, and no one will say anything, ever.
So Elzy was gone.
She’d exited her life as Detective Smelt through her own Capone Door.
My gut told me that eventually she would reenter through another door, as another person, but with the same twisted ambition to control the Outfit.
She was correct about one thing-I believe that in the twenty-first century, it would be impossible to do that without the notebook.
The official story is that the Outfit is weak, broken, and on its last legs after a long series of trials and convictions. The fact that most people believe this fantasy goes to show how well the Outfit has learned, in a hundred years of existence, to protect itself in a chameleonlike fashion by becoming invisible. The open displays of its existence-think Al Capone driving a Rolls-Royce convertible down State Street smoking hundred-dollar cigars and giving nickels to orphans-are so long gone, it’s like they never happened. The organization has wormed its way so deep into legitimate businesses that every time someone orders a latte with extra foam or downloads a movie or upgrades a phone, the Outfit gets its cut. Yes, there are still plenty of limo companies and cement companies and “gentlemen’s clubs” where the management uses “dem” and “dose” in daily conversation, but in general, the public accepts the bullshit that the Outfit has shrunk so small as to be almost nonexistent.
And then, out of nowhere, a headless, handless body stabbed sixty-six times will bob to the top of the Sanitary Canal.
A judge will commit suicide, and six hundred thousand dollars in cash will be found hidden in a shoe box under his bed.
There will be a long weekend of South Side shootings, which Chicagoans will dismiss as “drug-related gang activity” without realizing who’s actually selling the drugs, and how they use modern street gangs as their sales force.
Only the notebook explains how to access and utilize all of the forces of the Outfit. It contains the past and present of the snaking, unseen organization, and in doing so, lays out a blueprint for its future. Most important, it makes crystal clear that the Outfit is a heartless, soulless business-not a family or a club but pure, grinding commerce-and that the Boss of Bosses, the old man referred to only as Lucky, demands that every single day is business as usual. As Knuckles recently told me, my real job as counselor-at-large is not peacemaker but profit maker, since conflict, infighting, and turf wars serve only to shut down the cash-making machine. He told me that I’m at the center of everything in the Outfit because its center is the almighty dollar.
Knuckles doesn’t know that my family has been taken away.
What I’ve seen and heard as counselor-at-large, and the fact that I’ve been left alone to do the job, leads me to believe that no one else in the Outfit does either.
They don’t know that behind the papered windows of the bakery and the sign that announces a renovation in progress, the place is still and empty.
They also don’t know that the notebook exists, or that I’ll use it to tear the whole rotten Outfit apart to get my family back.
In the meantime, I had to push myself forward to Fep Prep for final exams before school let out for the summer.
The first thing Max and I talked about on Monday was Bully the Kid, how bizarre the whole butt-kicking thing had been, and when he would be out of the hospital. We were in the theater room, waiting for Doug to show up with the movie, and Max took a long look at me and said, “You sparred recently, huh?”
I thought about Poor Kevin, about the melee in the gondola and about Uncle Buddy, and turned away, stifling a crying jag. When I was sure that it had passed, I said, “Yeah. A couple of times.”
“You didn’t answer your phone all weekend.”
“Oh, yeah. It got. . wet. I’ll get a new one soon.”
Max stared at me, looking past the bruises. “You seem different. Like something happened to you. Like. .”
“It did, for sure.”
“. . you met someone else?”
It was my turn to stare, and after a long pause I said, “What do you mean, else?”
Max blushed from the neckline of his shirt, up past his warm brown eyes, right to the tip of his curly hair. He swallowed thickly and said, “This has been a tough couple of months for me, Sara Jane. My parents’ divorce, my dad moving to California. . I feel like I lost my family, you know?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
“I mean, I totally understand if you met someone you like, and you want to. .”
“I did meet someone, but-”
“. . see him, or whatever. I understand, because I don’t have much to give right now. Sometimes I don’t even feel like myself. Does that make sense?” he said, searching my eyes.
It made so much sense I had nothing to say except, “Max. Have you. . ever been to Rome?”
“Italy?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded, smiling. “Once, when I was little kid. We went as a family, traveled all over Europe. Funny you asked that, because Rome was my favorite place.”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s beautiful. You’d fit right in,” he said, and smiled a little. “My mom woke me up early one morning, before dawn. She wanted to walk the streets while they were empty, and we were crossing a piazza on the Capitoline Hill when the sun began to rise. We sat on the edge of a fountain to watch, right by an old church. I’ll never forget how sunlight touched the dome and the whole city seemed. .”
“Golden,” I whispered.
“. . golden, like it was lit from above and below, and on all sides.” He was quiet for a second, and then said, “We should go there sometime.”
“Okay,” I said, knowing I would go with him anywhere on earth.
“By the way,” he said, pointing at my neck, “I like that a lot.”
“Thanks,” I said, touching the signet ring, which hung from a chain. “My mom gave it to me.”
“It’s showtime!” Doug said, bustling into the room, opening his new laptop.
Max stared at the bruises covering Doug’s face. “Let me guess. You sparred this weekend too.”
“What?” Doug said. “Oh, that. I got a ski mask stuck on my head.”
“Huh?” Max said.
“Long story. Okay, today we’re watching a classic film noir called White Heat, starring our favorite little gangster, James Cagney,” Doug said, reaching into a paper bag. Instead of a ginormous root beer and a king-sized bag of Munchitos, he took out a bottle of water and a healthy apple. “His character, Cody Jarrett, is a ruthless criminal who’s obsessed with his mother, and. .”