Final Stroke (24 page)

Back on the Gianetti track on the computerized system, Jan read an article from a Chicago magazine praising Gianetti for his support of the handicapped, especially Vietnam veterans. The article, published in 1988, said that before his death, Gianetti was a big supporter of handicapped veterans, and after Gianetti’s death in 1986, his nephew, one Maximo Lamberti worked to continue that legacy. According to
the article, Lamberti, who did his stint in the military in the eighties, had no less than seven handicapped employees, three of them Vietnam veterans, working for him at his produce company.

When she finished with the Gianetti references in the archives, Jan looked up Max Lamberti. It seemed Max’s father before him, then Max, had been involved in some kind of peripheral organization, but not much was known about it. There was a photograph of Max as a much younger man in his military uniform posing with his father. The caption said the photograph was taken during Max Lamberti’s first leave after boot camp and that soon he’d be headed for Fort Bragg and the 82
^nd
Airborne Division. In the photograph, Max held his ser
vice cap at his side and, because the boot camp haircut had grown out some, Jan could see that Max had already lost a lot of his hair back then. She recalled Max at the funeral, leering at her while holding onto her hand unnecessarily. Now she was certain Max wore a hair
piece because the mane of hair that plunged down onto his forehead was much too thick for a transplant.

The only connection she found between Antonio Gianetti Senior and his nephew Max was a hint that Max worked for the Gianetti or
ganization when he first got into organized crime after his military discharge, and that he probably learned the ropes there before stepping into his father’s shoes after his father died. None of the articles im
plied Max took over Gianetti’s old organization after Gianetti’s death. In fact, one of the articles went out of its way to show that the old or
ganization seemed to die with the senior Gianetti.

One thing that did stand out, after reading about uncle and nephew, was that Max, the nephew, had apparently been involved in the business of bringing drugs into Chicago. In contrast, her earlier reading about Gianetti indicated he had a great disdain for drug traf ficking. This difference made Jan think of Steve’s references to a “fly in
the ointment” and “Max the fly” and she wondered if Max’s peripheral organization trafficked exclusively in drugs, and if that’s what made him a “black sheep” in the larger family.

Jan moved from the archive computer to one of the Internet com
puters where she searched out more recent references to the Gianetti family. In these articles the name Antonio had been dropped in favor of Tony. There she found several articles about Tony Junior and even a couple articles written by him. As she read the articles about global warming and other environmental issues, Jan recalled Marjorie saying something about her son being a lover of nature. One of the articles, bylined Tony Gianetti, with no mention of him being a junior, was from
Sierra Magazine
. The article was from 2004, itemizing what he considered President Bush’s environmental failures and giving reasons why Bush should not be reelected President.

As Jan sat at the computer reading outspoken environmental and political articles by Tony Junior, the librarian came over. Her name was Bonnie and she had a soft look and sallow complexion that made it seem she never went outside the library into the sunlight. Of course Bonnie wouldn’t have been able to go out into the sunlight this day because the rain was still slanting sideways against the large windows in the reference area.

Bonnie’s hair was long and straight, tied behind her head. She wore a maroon sweater over a white blouse and gray wool skirt. It looked like one of only a few outfits Jan had ever seen Bonnie wear. She remembered Steve once saying maybe when the three or four skirts got threadbare they could buy some new ones for Bonnie. Though this may have seemed cruel at the time, it was not. Steve had been perfectly serious, the statement not a joke at all, but an indication of his concern for Bonnie.

Bonnie had once had problems with a library patron from whom
she accepted an invitation for a date. Following the date, which turned out to be a date rape, the man had stalked Bonnie. She was working evenings at the time and the stalker kept showing up at the library before closing time. He would wait inside, watching Bonnie close up behind the front desk, then he would go outside to wait for her in the parking lot. She told Steve about this one evening when she could stand it no longer. Jan did not know what Steve said to the man, all she knew was that Steve approached the man in the library that eve ning, sat beside him, opened a book and pretended to read while he spoke softly to the man. The result of this one-sided conversation was that the man left, saying goodnight to those at the counter, including Bonnie, and never returned.

Bonnie pulled out the chair next to Jan. “Mind if I sit?”

“Not at all.”

“You looked busy,” said Bonnie. “But I didn’t want you to leave before I had a chance to ask about Steve. How’s he doing?”

“Not bad. They’re working him pretty hard, running him through the mill at Saint Mel’s.”

“I’ve heard good things about their program,” said Bonnie. “Is he still getting a lot of physical therapy like at the hospital?”

“Quite a bit. At first it bothered him, having to be shown how to do simple things, but he got used to it. At the rehab center the physical and occupational therapy is more advanced—using the phone, com
puters, and they’ve even mentioned the possibility of driving soon. But they mainly work on verbal and written communication skills.”

“How’s the aphasia?” asked Bonnie.

“Better,” said Jan. “It turns out the damage to Steve’s left brain caused mostly expressive aphasia rather than receptive aphasia. That means he’s pretty good at understanding what you’re saying, but has trouble respond ing. The way he describes it, sometimes the words are there, floating
right in front of him, but they’re upside-down or inside-out. And at other times, when he finally comes up with the word that matches the concept and he’s ready to say it, it’s like grasping at straws. The word is there, but when he goes to grab it, it slips away. But he is getting much better typ ing things. I was just reading something about global warming and it reminded me of what he typed the other day. He said when he came out of the stroke and started trying to follow news on television about global warming, it was as though the world had had a stroke.”

Bonnie reached out and put her hand on Jan’s for a moment be
fore pulling it back. “It must be very frustrating for Steve and for you. He was always one who knew how to say just the right thing. I should know.”

“It is frustrating sometimes,” said Jan. “He’s been referring to the stroke as a brain bullet. I guess the description is about right. After the stroke some circuits are shot, some aren’t. It’s pretty random.”

“What about the medication you told me about last time?”

“The Citicoline?”

“Yes,” said Bonnie, “that was it. The article I read said they have high hopes for Citicoline helping the injured brain repair itself by somehow internally bypassing or fixing damaged circuits.”

Jan looked toward the window at the droplets running into one another on the glass, then cascading down in a stream. “Steve’s doc
tors say the Citicoline did some good, but that it can’t bring the brain all the way back. There’s also the timing. Citicoline is supposed to be started within twenty-four hours of the stroke, and within the first few hours for maximum effect. They gave it to him right after they gave him the clot-dissolving drug. But there’s still some question as to whether we got him to the hospital and got the Citicoline in him within the window for … for maximum effect.”

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” said Bonnie.

Jan turned from the window and looked back at Bonnie, saw the sad face, reached out and touched her hand. “It’s okay, Bonnie. He’s doing better. In speech therapy he runs the tape recorder and dem
onstrates word pronunciation to newcomers. It’s just that I’m always there, and from one day to the next it probably seems as if nothing’s changed, when in fact he’s making steady progress. We’ve kept a goals diary for Steve since he first went into the hospital like they suggested, and I suppose if I looked back in it once in a while, I’d see how much he’s progressed.”

After she and Bonnie exchanged goodbyes, Bonnie came back. “I almost forgot. You looked so busy on the computer. Is there anything I can help you find?”

“I think I’ve about exhausted it, Bonnie. I’ve been looking for information on Chicago organized crime figures. It has to do with something Steve … well, it has to do with Steve.”

“Do you have names?” asked Bonnie.

After she gave Bonnie the names Gianetti and Lamberti and told about what she’d found so far, Bonnie led Jan to a small file behind the checkout desk. After a while Bonnie wrote something down on a card, then had Jan follow her to the audio-visual department. There she searched through educational videos until she came out with one. She had a smile on her face.

“It’s a four-part PBS program on organized crime. Part three is an hour-long segment on Chicago, past and present. It was aired a few years ago, but maybe you can find something.”

The excitement of the search. Jan began to feel it when Bonnie handed her the tape and took her to a viewing room. The feeling grew even stronger at the beginning of the hour-long Chicago seg ment when the introduction showed flashes of Chicago crime figures, including a photograph of Antonio Gianetti right in there with those
of Capone and Spilotro and Accardo. And the feeling reached it’s peak when she got to the part of the video covering not only Antonio Gia netti Senior, but also his nephew, Maximo Lamberti.

Although there were only stills of Gianetti, apparently because Gianetti Senior valued his privacy and did not give interviews, there was a brief interview with nephew Max.

In the video, Max was a few years younger than the man she met at Marjorie’s funeral, but older than the boot camp graduate she’d seen photographed with his father. He had not yet grown a mustache, but he’d already donned the thick black hairpiece. He stared at the camera as he spoke, leaning closer to it. As she watched the interview, it became obvious to Jan that Max was not one to shy away from the limelight the way his uncle had.

“Tell me,” said the interviewer, “was your uncle part of the orga
nization or wasn’t he?”

“My Uncle Tony?”

“Yes.”

“My Uncle Tony was a good man. He might have been part of some kind of organization, I don’t know.”

“By organization, I mean organized crime in Chicago.”

“Jesus, you mean the mob?”

“Okay, the mob. Specifically, the Chicago mob. However, before the interview you asked me not to use the word.”

“That’s right,” said Max, staring at the camera. “I don’t like the word
mob
. But if you’re going to ask questions and you expect me to answer, I’ve got to call a spade a spade.”

Max looked to the side, smiled and reached out, shoving at some one off camera. “Hey, don’t take it so serious… Okay, you want to know if my Uncle Tony was in the mob. Sure he was. But things were different back then. Truck drivers were in the mob and grocery store
owners were in the mob and politicians—especially politicians—were in the mob.”

“I see your point,” said the interviewer. “But what about more re
cent times? What about just prior to his death? Tony Gianetti died in 1986. Was he still in the mob in the 1980s?”

Max smiled and nodded at the camera. “That’s a very good ques
tion. But I’m sorry to say there’s no way to know the answer. I was in the military in the eighties serving my country, so I couldn’t exactly keep track of what was going on back here in Chicago. As far as my Uncle Tony was concerned, he was a very private man. He never did interviews or any of this. He never wanted publicity. And in his later years, he was even private from his own family. He was a good man, giving to charities, especially the Vietnam vets. But he never wanted a medal for it.”

“I understand you’ve taken over where your uncle left off, hiring veterans and supporting their causes.”

“Something bad about that?”

“No.”

“Sure, just because there wasn’t a war when I served, doesn’t mean I don’t love my country. I’ve hired U.S. vets from all services and all conflicts to work for me. And not only vets, but other handicapped people. I got one guy who got his legs chopped off in a combine ac
cident. He’s just standing there one day out in the field in Kansas and the combine … see, it’s dark out and the driver can’t see him and … what’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I just wondered if we could stick to the topic.”

“Okay, if you insist.”

“I understand the Vietnam Veterans of America recently presented you with an award.”

“Yeah, that’s true, but I don’t like to brag about it.”

“Are you a member of the mob, Max?”

Max’s face went sour, but the smile quickly returned. “That word,
mob
, it’s one of those funny words that can be okay sometimes, but not okay at other times. This is one of those times when I don’t care for it.”