Cold Fury (17 page)

I was looking at Uncle Buddy.

Greta was facing him.

She glanced over his shoulder and her eyebrows jumped when she saw me.

Uncle Buddy waved a Sick-a-Rette in one hand, saying, “I swear, when I get my hands on her . . .”

“Oh my God,” Greta cried, pointing at me. “Your niece! She’s . . . she’s in the oven, Benito! Behind you!”

“What the hell are you . . . ?” Buddy turned slowly, his jaw falling when he saw me. And then he saw the briefcase. And then he was a bull seeing red, barreling across the kitchen. My hand shot out and hit the button, the door shut, and the box rumbled and fell. Uncle Buddy’s voice trailed after me, saying, “That’s
mine
, Sara Jane! I’m coming to get it . . . !”

I had no doubt he was telling the truth.

He meant right now, this instant.

My heart was hammering in time to his violent determination.

As soon as I stepped out of the box, the doors closed and it rose away. Uncle Buddy had figured out how to recall it, and would be stuffing himself inside any second. I ran into Club Molasses and slammed the door, but the old lock didn’t work. Hiding inside the Ferrari was silly, crouching behind the bar even sillier, so I sprinted into the office and slammed the door, hoping it would seal itself, but I’d destroyed the keypad. My mind went into lockdown as I paced—waiting, waiting—until I heard the elevator arrive. Uncle Buddy’s footsteps on the dance floor moved slowly with surprise at what he was seeing for the first time. I knew that there was no way out, and that my only option now was to fight. I might not save myself, but I would at least do damage to my uncle—he would lose an eye or the use of a limb before he did me in.

His footsteps stopped, it was silent, and then they started again.

He’d spotted the door and was moving toward it.

In a mockingly sweet voice, he called out, “Sara Jane! It’s your
favorite
uncle!”

His tone was so sickly disappointing that it drained me of resolve. Instead of going forward with a fist cocked, I cowered against the wall, hugging the briefcase.

“Sara Jane! I know you’re in there!”

I couldn’t stand to see his smug grin, so I turned to the wall, closed my eyes, and leaned my head against the map, with the tiny metal
C
of the Wrigley Field sign raised against my forehead.

“I owe you one, kid. I
never
would’ve found this place on my own!”

I heard a faint
buzz
and my body tilted forward a few inches.

A puff of earthy-smelling wind swirled around my head.

“Oh, Sara
Ja
-
ane
!”

I can now state with complete authority that the first step through a secret door that opens suddenly in an underground wall is helped mightily by the fact that someone may be about to kill you. I didn’t hesitate any longer than it took to hear Uncle Buddy’s hand turn the office doorknob, and I leaped through it. As soon as my feet touched a platform, the door hissed shut and I was standing in musty semidarkness. I saw a thin wire running from the back of the Wrigley Field
C
to a spring—the
C
was a hidden button that opened the door. I also discovered that the little drawing of Buckingham Fountain disguised another peephole, and I peered through it just as Uncle Buddy pushed into the office.

“He-e-e-re’s . . . ,” he announced, looking around the empty room as his fat face fell. “Buddy?”

I would have loved to watch him pull open desk drawers as if I’d shrunk and were hiding inside, or listen to his soliloquy of obscenities when he finally realized that I had vanished. But I couldn’t take the chance of being found out, and turned to a staircase that descended deep into shadows. The staircase fell forever, lower and lower, and I stared at it, thinking that every new discovery plunged me deeper into darkness. I touched a cool, crumbling brick wall and squinted at the painted image of a hand pointing downward. On the other side of the map, furniture was kicked and Uncle Buddy’s first F-bomb dropped. I took a hesitant step, then another, using only the screen of my phone for illumination. Light fixtures lined the wall, some holding ancient burned-out bulbs, some none at all, with the pointing hands appearing each time the staircase took a twist or turn. Finally, when it seemed like I was about to arrive on hell’s doorstep, a rectangle of light appeared at the bottom of the stairs, glowing above a metal door. I laid a hand against it as a rumble sounded in the distance, quickly growing louder, and wind played at my feet.

The door fought me on rusty hinges, then scraped open.

I pushed through just in time to watch a subway train barrel past.

It shuddered to a stop at the far end of the platform, and I ran for it.

I jumped onto the last car and fell into a seat right before the doors slid shut. It was empty except for a woman seated across from me. She was perfectly coiffed and crisply dressed in a black suit with an elbow resting on a black leather briefcase as she inspected a folded newspaper. I slumped across from her in the extra-large, now-filthy EMT shirt, freaky sweat pants, and crooked bloody head bandage while squeezing the steel briefcase to my chest as if my life depended on it, which it did. I felt her eyes flick up and inspect me, and when I met her gaze, she executed an old-time Chicago move—the polite but defensive small smile and a nod.

I returned the gesture.

She returned to her newspaper.

Just two hardworking ladies making the daily commute.

14

I DO THIS THING
all the time now where I cry in really short, super-explosive bursts that come out of nowhere, happen anywhere and everywhere, and disappear in seconds.

First my face gets itchy and then my eyes feel fat.

And then,
kaboom!
I’m sobbing, shaking, and my nose is running.

And then I blink, and it’s over.

If I’m at school and I feel it coming on, I duck into a restroom or empty classroom and clap a hand over my face, muting myself until it’s done. If I’m all alone, however, I try to indulge it—I try to keep it going so I can weep deeper and deeper until I’m all cried out. But no matter how hard I try to prolong it, it always passes quickly, like a short but fervent tropical storm. Something inside my emotional core understands that while I need to expel pressure, completely dropping my guard is way too dangerous.

The first time it happened was on the subway after I escaped from Uncle Buddy.

All that I had seen and learned at the bakery was too much to process.

My brain went numb trying to reconcile it with reality, and failed.

When I blinked around the car, I realized that I’d been riding for hours. The train had risen from the tunnel and was clacking on elevated tracks. My nose itched and then I doubled over with tears, crying so intensely that it felt like I was being kicked in the chest. I was outside myself, wondering who I was crying for, and realized it was me. It ended when I accepted the bitter fact that I couldn’t afford to pity myself any longer than a couple of sweet seconds. I sat up and looked at a dozing drunk and an iPad-hypnotized geek, relieved that no one had witnessed my mini breakdown. It occurred to me then that I could probably use a good therapist after all I’d been through. And then I thought of kids who spend hours on therapists’ couches bemoaning their lives—some of which was legitimate, some that wasn’t, some who actually had ADD and some who didn’t but were prescribed Ritalin anyway—and thought, Screw therapy. What I need is my family.

I hugged the briefcase like it was my little brother.

At midnight, I stepped off the train at the station nearest the bakery.

The sidewalks were deserted as I darted to the Lincoln.

My internal-anger engine was whirring at full tilt now, and the tears had long receded. I lingered while unlocking the car door, overcome with a strange hope that Uncle Buddy would leap from a shadow so I could beat him with the steel suitcase and then spend a few minutes kicking in his teeth. But no, I was alone on the street—that pleasure would have to wait for the next encounter with my “favorite uncle.” I had what he wanted and knew that he would come after me sooner rather than later. After my long day on the train, in which my brain and heart had been turned inside out, I welcomed it.

Despite the knocks I’d taken, despite becoming a serial weeper, fear was slowly calcifying into an undeniable need for revenge.

Flexing and unflexing my fist, I hoped that one of my pursuers would suffer my left hook very damn soon.

The physical anticipation of throwing a punch made me think of Willy and how alarmed he probably was at my prolonged absence. Looking down a dark alley, I also remembered that Harry was gone. My heart ached at his disappearance, but it was now beating to a recalibrated rhythm, one that informed me that there were things I could do and things I could not. To survive, and for the survival of my family, I had to put aside the problems I was unable to affect—like finding Harry. Actions I could take—like opening the briefcase in hopeful anticipation of valuable clues—had to be executed immediately. My lips moved in silent prayer for the little dog as I started the engine, put down the convertible top, and pulled smoothly from the curb. Chicago late at night is both dark and light, with streetlights burning every few feet. My dad told me that when he was a kid, he remembered old Mayor Daley declaring with certainty that the continuous presence of light would make the city a safer place, and proceeded to plant glowing metal poles everywhere. I cruised through empty streets bathed in fluorescence, the cool, lake-smelling wind against my battered face, and it felt like being alive.

By the time I parked in the alley behind Windy City Gym, reality had returned.

Willy had covertly left open a door anticipating my return.

I entered and locked it behind me, and was alone in the dark again.

There was no light under Willy’s apartment door, so I crept quietly across the gym and shimmied with difficulty up to the Crow’s Nest, pausing every few feet to shift the heavy briefcase from one hand to another. Finally I hoisted myself inside, shut the trapdoor, pulled the shades, and turned on a lamp. A combination lock held the briefcase together, and I flipped the numbers instinctively to my birthday. Where those significant digits had no effect on the office keypad, now they fell smoothly into place. It was another sign that my dad had anticipated my survival. But at the moment, all that mattered was that the briefcase opened, and I sat back, staring at its contents.

Hundred-dollar bills were stacked in tight green bricks.

The steel skin of a pistol shimmered ominously.

A razor-thin rectangle of plastic bore my name.

The black AmEx credit card imprinted with
SARA JANE RISPOLI
proved that my dad expected me not only to survive, but to find the briefcase. I set it aside, along with a Sig Sauer .45 conceal-and-carry and ninety-six thousand dollars in cash. I realized that these things were my dad’s last, best attempt to protect me, especially since I would now be the protector of the old leather notebook stuffed with secrets.

In the middle of the briefcase sat the ratty, ancient thing, just as I’d suspected.

It was held together with masking tape, rubber bands, and metal clips, and its spine was cracked with age. The leather surface was patchy, dry, and wounded, like mummified skin. Carefully, I lifted and unbound it, opening to the flyleaf.

La proprietà di Nunzio Rispoli, 1922
, was written in faded ink.

Below it read,
La proprietà di Enzo Rispoli—Property of Enzo Rispoli, 1963.

Further down, my dad’s handwriting stated,
Property of Anthony Rispoli, 2011.

The last inscription was the freshest and I touched it lightly, knowing he’d written it in secret, which made me simultaneously sad and mad. If my dad had told me about this—any of this—I could’ve done more than grope blindly from one life-threatening situation to another. I looked down at the time-worn notebook, at his words written with care, and thought, Maybe this is his way of telling me. I turned the page to a sheaf of paper that had been reattached decades ago, the tape gone yellow, and read the carefully handwritten words,
La Tavola d’Indice
. Below it, someone else had hastily written in English,
Table of Contents
. Underneath were titles of eight chapters, also written in Italian, with the first seven bearing scribbled translations—

1. Nostro—
Us

2. Loro—
Them

3. Soldi—
Money

4. Muscolo—
Muscle

5. Sfuggire—
Escape

6. Metodi—
Methods

7. Procedimenti
—Procedures

8. Volta

The last chapter was not translated, but even I knew that
volta
is a common Italian word for “time.” As I flipped the pages, I saw some parts of each chapter were written in Italian and others in English. Countless names accompanied by phone numbers and addresses were scribbled, crossed out, and new ones added in their places. Dozens of ancient business cards were held fast by rusty staples. Black-and-white photo booth snapshots of dicey-looking guys were glued to pages. Scraps of paper taped here and there in some sort of order bore phrases (
Toronto, Midnight, February 8, 1973
), names (
Ask for Joe Little
), and figures (
2,000 brl’s at 500 per
) that had no significance, since there was no context. It was crammed with handwritten notes, some that appeared as old as Great-Grandpa Nunzio’s inscription from 1922 and some as recent as last week. Each section was baffling, and taken as a whole, the scruffy old notebook was simply overwhelming. It was like being the first person to look at the Rosetta Stone or the Bible. I knew the notebook was what Uncle Buddy was after and that it was really important, but I didn’t know why. I flipped more pages, hoping for a note from my dad, and that’s when the title of a section caught my eye.