CHAPTER NINE

Meanwhile, somewhere else in Chicago . . .

Sal “Slick” Santoro sat in the back of his limousine, legs crossed, wearing a ten-thousand dollar suit. Not because it was any better than a suit that cost a tenth of that, but because he could. He held a fat cigar in one hand and a gold case cell in the other, pressed against his ear.

Every day for the past ten years Slick used four fingers worth of boot polish in his hair, then ran a fine-toothed-comb through it. It was the reason he came to be known as Slick. His eyes were smoky, with puffy pillows beneath them, and he had a mouth filled with Tom Cruise style porcelain veneers.

“You tell Lazy Lorenzo I want the shipment of crank in port yesterday. My meat eater tells me the bacon is getting hot.”

A high-pitched voice came through the receiver. “Hey boss, you think we got a rat?”

“Dunno, Grapes. You keep this close to your chest. You tell no one, you got me? No one.”

Slick hung up and slipped the cell into his top pocket, then took a long draw of his cigar, blowing curling tendrils of smoke out his nostrils.

The limo turned into an alleyway beside the Goodfella’s Lounge and pulled up beside the private side entrance. Slick put out his cigar in the limo’s ashtray and waited a moment for his door to open. He climbed out and looked at his driver.

Vince Pellegrini was a giant of a man, taller than most NBA centers and wider than all of them put together. He was Slick’s bodyguard and personal driver. They’d grown up together in the same neighborhood, and Vince looked after him then as he did now.

“How do I look?” Slick asked, pulling at his lapels.

“Like a million bucks, boss,” said Vince, smiling with deep dimples in chubby cheeks.

Slick slapped him softly on the cheek a few times. “You’re a good boy, Vince. Keep the engine running.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Vince shut the car door and watched as his boss and friend walked into the club, the metal door slamming shut behind him. Scanning the alleyway, Vince surreptitiously reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulling out his cell. He dialed a number with fat fingers and pressed the cold glass of the cell to the side of his face and waited. There was a click and a man’s voice.

“Go ahead.”

“He’s bringing it forward.”

“Forward?”

“That’s what I said. Wants it done immediately so watch the port.”

“Good job, Vince,” came the voice. “Looks like you won’t be going to prison after all. You’re kids will thank you for it.”

“You just hold up your end of the deal. When this goes down I need to disappear. You got me? Vanish off the face of the Earth.”

“That’s the deal, daddy-o.”

Vince hung up and slid the cell back into his jacket pocket, looked around, fishing for his smokes from another pocket. He pulled one out the box and stuck it in his mouth, shaking his head, feeling the regret settle into the pit of stomach.

He heard a strange sound. A kind of schwip, schwip, schwip, followed by a giggle, high and sweet. He paused the lighter before it lit the cigarette, holding it in midair, watching the alleyway.

“Hello?” he called out, letting the cancer stick dangle in his mouth.

The laugh came again. Vince stepped in front of the limo. “Someone there?”

Then he heard singing. A soft, gentle singing, like a little girl playing in the park, singing a tune with a friend. Only the song wasn’t in English. Vince moved down the alleyway, glancing at the dumpsters along the way, thinking the song sounded Chinese, or Japanese.

“Hello?” he called out, a little louder this time, spitting his cigarette away.

The singing was getting closer now as he stepped down the alleyway, and as he moved toward it, he realized it was coming from behind one of the dumpsters.

He approached, stepped around it.

A girl crouched in the corner where it met the alley’s brick wall. She was facing away from him, arms tucked into herself, and she was wearing white roller skates, a tartan skirt, and a white shirt. Like a school uniform.

She stopped singing.

“Are ... are you okay, little girl?” he asked.

She didn’t respond and Vince took a step closer. He held a hand out, reaching out to touch her shoulder. He paused as she began to stand.

Standing to her fall height, Vince realized she wasn’t as young as he had first thought. She turned on her white skates and unfurled her arms. But they weren’t arms at all. They were steel blades, strapped to her elbows with leather belts. Her pitch-black hair hung perfectly straight, framing her pale face, and two, hollow, black voids filled her eye sockets.

Vince gaped in horror, frozen stiff. “Oh my Go—” was all he said.

The girl thrust her sword arms into the man’s belly, bursting through his giant back. He slid down the blades until he was inches from her face. He stared at her, head trembling, eyes wide.

Then the girl’s lips curled up in a smile, and without a shred of mercy, she tore the blades out of him, sideways. There was a sickening slice and blood spattered the alleyway walls.

The song started once more, light and happy, and faded away against the backdrop of grinding skates on bitumen.

Thanks for reading! Remember, the full, illustrated, book is over on Amazon!

Cheers! Billy