Big Chicago

Big Chicago Part 31.….By Samayel

“Tell it again. From the top. The whole story.” Kingsley’s voice was a soft rumble, calm in the face of the annoying little man they were questioning.

The bartender had been cooperative enough, mostly terrified that, having been fingered as the lone survivor of the bar killings, he’d soon be listed as the suspect. It was good to let him think that, but it was clear that the weedy, greasy little man had almost nothing to do with it, and had probably survived solely because of his total unimportance.

“Right, right, sure…whatever you want. Like I said, and I swear…on my mother’s grave…should anything particularly fatal ever happen to her…God forbid…I was cleaning up after my shift. I locked the doors after the boss and the boys came in. They go in the office, I start cleaning up. You know how it is. I don’t ask questions…I just do my job, so I ‘overlook’ anything goin’ on that isn’t related to taking care of the bar.

There was no one left inside. We only had two or three patrons in the last hour we were open. They’d all left before I started cleaning, honest to God. So I’m cleaning, maybe five minutes at the most, and I get the bucket an’ mop and head for the bathroom. I just barely start moppin’ the floor and the next thing I know I got a guy behind me holdin’ a rag over my mouth. I thought I was done for! All I saw was a black glove and his arm in a black coat. Then the lights went out. I came to maybe half an hour later, layin’ on the floor with a headache, and when I go into the office to tell what happened, everybody’s dead as dead gets.

I panicked. What the hell would you do? I’m in the business of not asking questions, but I know what kinda people I work for…and they don’t like messes. So I ran. Went to my uncle’s place. I begged him to not tell anyone I was around, but it looks like some nosy old broad saw me through the window and phoned me in to you guys. I’m no killer! You gotta know that! Look at my record, man. I never did anything worse than a B&E when I was broke after high school. I did the time in county and stayed clean ever since. I ain’t even had a parkin’ ticket! I swear to God!”

Dora’s phone rang in her pocket, breaking the routine. Kingsley slumped back into his seat, while their interviewee simply rubbed his hands along his face, grateful for the break.

“Go ahead, Officer. Don’t let me…you know…be a nuisance or nothin’…right?”

Dora frowned mildly while she pulled the phone out and checked the incoming number. The name slipped from her mouth like growl before she could stop herself. “Luna…Kingsley…forgive me. I’ve gotta take this.”

“No sweat. You do what you gotta do, Tonksy. I’ll keep laughing boy here company for awhile.”

Dora stepped back to the corner of the room, trying to keep the conversation as private as possible. Luna had never grasped that police work wasn’t the sort of job you interrupted with phone calls at random, and while sometimes the calls held important tidbits of information that Dora needed to hear, oftentimes she wound listening to a rambling speech on whatever crossed Luna’s mind at the moment…and that could be anything.

“Luna…Luna…Luna…please…damn it…I’m sorry…I am at work. I need you to get straight to the point. Okay…Remus called…I get it. I’ll call him later…fine. I am at work…I need to go, Luna…please. Okay? This is important…I can’t talk now. I’ll talk to you when I get home…but I need to get back to work now. Please? Okay. Okay. I…I love you too.”

The phone snapped shut and Dora turned back to the two men at the table, blushing when she realized that her irritation had made her louder than intended. The bartender smiled toothily.

“Whoa…that’s so cool. Lesbian cop, eh? Like in the movies. Hey…speakin’ of movies…I got this friend…more of an associate…who makes movies…and does photography. I don’t know if you ever thought about being a model, but…y’know…the whole lesbian cop thing would be really hot. Nothing illegal, though…strictly high class art shots…but nude, right?”

The look on Dora’s face was enough to make the little man stop smiling a heartbeat later.

“Never mind. It was terrible idea. Back to the story…right?”

Kingsley chuckled softly. “Yeah…back to the story. Smartest thing you’ve said all day.”


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I can call the week that passed a good one…and I would sooo not be lying. So many things to get used to, but I’m learning. I hate mornings…it’s like my religion…but after seven years of waking up when everyone else does I guess I’m okay with structured, routine schedules.

Harry has been off duty all week, but I haven’t. I suppose I should be upset, but he goes into the ‘office’ with me every day anyway. We wake and play and work out, shower and eat and dress, then let Ron take us to work. Then we come home…our home…where I can paint or sketch, play piano or read at my leisure…or just fuck like bunnies until dinner. Not surprisingly, I haven’t read or painted as much as I could have, given the options that are available to me, but I still like to practice at the piano after dinner. Maria has begun to look at us in amazement, since I don’t think she ever imagined it was possible for two people to spend that much time locked in a bedroom. Therese on the on the other hand, just rolls her eyes and huffs with annoyance whenever one of us gets ’that look’ in his eyes and we wind up slipping away with only a hint of discretion. They can be as amazed or as annoyed as they like…as long as I’m getting laid this much…and this well!

Harry has had his ID changed to another alias. James Evans. Hermione put in overtime changing computer records and deleting or altering files in databases that held records of Harry Black or Harry Potter. We haven’t gone out much lately, mostly because I’m working the same shifts as everyone else, and there’s been an awful lot going on, but also because Harry is laying low while they figure out ways to change the nature of his involvement.

It seems that my very own, dear, old Daddy has been up to his usual tricks, but this time he’s taking his cues from Mr. Riddle and the Enigma Corp. As a result, we’ve been here with our ears and eyes fixed on every snippet of news we can get, all to piece together an action plan that revolves around balking the Enigma Corp and frustrating Riddle enough to make him lose his temper and leave us a clue we can really work with. Call me invested in the process, but if Harry can do this one last job, he’ll be able to quit this and leave it all behind. A life with no more complications would be his and mine, and I’d endure a lot worse than excess hours at the office to achieve a goal like that!

I haven’t even had time to spend the earnings from my first payday. Officially, Deacon Malloy earned his salary as a translation consultant to the Phoenix Corp., and I’ve never been paid so much for anything, legal or otherwise, in my entire life. At the first opportunity that presents itself, I pretty desperately need some shopping-based self indulgence. Lord knows the only other thing I’m still allowed is sex.

And I have so truly NOT suffered a lack of that!

It’s hard to find myself worried over my father’s sudden involvement in Riddle’s game when I can wake up in a tangled pile of sheets and limbs, still practically reeking of sex and sore from the night before, and then start the morning off with a warm-up fuck before we even make it to the shower. I feel…sated…content…complete. It really hasn’t been that long since my life was an endless line of terrible days, but this life makes all of that fade and disappear so easily…when that perfect cock glides into me like silk, like it was fashioned in heaven, made just to accommodate me and fill my every need, and I can grind my body back onto it, savoring the way Harry groans beneath me thrusting up desperately when he comes inside of me as hard and hungry for more as I am.

I stopped taking the pills a couple of days ago. I don’t have the same feelings of terrible apprehension lately. Routine is grinding away the rough edges of what I think is my fear of change, and I feel like the anvil of doubt has been lifted from my chest. Harry is here, and safe, and all mine. My work has a meaning. My work. I love saying that! I didn’t have anything that could be called work before! I had…’my trick’, or ‘my keeper’. I don’t have to fuck a stranger I hate to keep myself alive. I get to have the sex I want, with the man I want, as often as I can make him hard for me…and the only annoying side effect is that I haven’t been this giddy since junior high!

Doc Snape noticed the difference too. When I got my check up, he didn’t do much more than nod and occasionally grunt while scribbling notes, but when it was finished and the numbers were there in black and white he had a few nice things to say…by his standard.

“Color me fucking stunned. Looks like you actually listened. I’ll have to give Harry a lollypop for doing what he’s fucking told for once. Your numbers are good across the board. We’ll try some time without the mood stabilizers. If nothing seems wrong in two weeks, that’ll be the last of that. Keep to the diet until then. I’ll lift a few restrictions then if you’re still in good shape…assuming you can exercise a little moderation and stick to the rest of the rules. Don’t let it go to your head…and stop smiling so damned much…it’s annoying as hell.”

Like I said…by his standards, that’s a glowing report, highlighting the admirable self restraint I’ve shown for weeks, and I should be proud of myself for following through on all the recommendations for my well being.

And that brings me to here. The office. My workstation. French, Italian, Spanish and English communications, each culled from the vast stores of worldwide transmissions, each with just a few key words that piqued interest. Of course…most of them are complete crap. Ordinary comments made by ordinary people, memos between departments on everyday business, and copies of emails phone calls that have no real relevance. A few items get kicked up to Hermione or Parvati each day, since I still have trouble getting the feel for what is or isn’t important, but I’m getting better as I go, and I don’t get headaches the way I did the first week I spent in front of a computer monitor. I’m adjusting.

It doesn’t hurt that Harry broke down and took a rare picture for me, then framed it and had it waiting for me with a single red rose at my desk. I understand now why he has so few pictures. He can’t afford to leave behind lots of evidence. The few that were taken when he was in school years ago are still out there, but they’re connected only to Harry Potter, heir to two fortunes, decorated soldier and wealthy, jet-setting corporate titan. He hasn’t allowed new pictures to become attached to any of his other ID’s, except for the slightly rough ID pictures themselves. Each one looks so different from the others. Different facial expressions, different haircuts, and different posture. Each carefully calculated to evoke a unique personality at first glance, and even the details shuffle around a little. A little less weight, an inch or two of height. Little things, but just enough to keep people off their guard.

But I was worth bending the rules again. I like the picture. He’s smiling broadly…genuinely. He’s smiling because Dean is taking the picture and it’s just for me, for here, so that I’ll have one of the only pictures of him around. When we’re here together, Harry is usually handling some of the Farsi and other Arabic documents to take some of the work off of Parvati, or downstairs on the pistol range. I’ve practiced that too, and honestly the only part I like is having Harry step close behind me to coach me through effective posture and how to aim carefully before firing. Not to mention keeping my wrist steady when it fires. Not to harp on the subject of limp wrists, but they don’t come limper than mine, and steadying a pistol is tougher than it sounds. Still, I’m at least good enough to hit a target in the torso, so theoretically, if someone stood nice and still less than twenty feet away, they might be in danger!

Honestly, some days I wish that acerbic wit could kill. I’d be the deadliest hit man alive.

But this isn’t bad. I can poke fun at Hermione and Ron for making eyes at each other, take a break for some snuggling and lunch with Harry, and make a small fortune doing it. No complaints. Then Hermione drifts by with an all business look on her face.

“Staff meeting…all strategy this time. I think we’ve got some workable plans.”

Everyone gathers around the large table in the center of one of the meeting rooms here. It probably used to be a managers office almost eighty years ago, but now maps of Chicago are spread out and the lighting is clean and sharp, allowing everyone at the big table to see easily. I admit to serious interest, because Hermione is the one who will finalize Harry’s next moves. This does have an impact on me, but Harry’s next to me now, still smelling faintly of gunpowder…and expensive cologne. Comforting, but surreal. Hermione is talking, a study in contrasts, brilliant and forceful, dressed in blue jeans and tie-dyed T-shirt, looking like a throwback from another time, talking like a woman twenty years ahead of our time.

“We’ve got several things on the docket today, so forgive me if I seem hurried here, but I have a lot of irons and the fire right now and we all need to get back to work as soon as this is over.

First off, we’ve discussed the possibility of a shift of styles. Our initial campaign concentrated our efforts on criminal organizations loosely involved in the sale, control, and transition of property connected to the Urban Revitalization scheme currently backed by Riddle and his cronies. Our disruption of their efforts has been successful, resulting in near complete chaos in the underworld, and their almost total withdrawal from the project. Leaders of various organizations have rushed to sell property to legitimate, unaffiliated real estate groups, even taking a loss on them to hurry their un-involvement. They’ve realized that Riddle is a poison pill, but the project is still stumbling forward, and as long as Riddle is getting part of what he wants, he’ll keep playing. We haven’t won yet, but we have gained some ground.

Here’s why. Recently, and not surprisingly, Congressman Lucius Malfoy involved himself in the process to a much higher degree than mere public support. A flurry of phone calls out of his office and home have been at the center of a push to move legitimate contractors into position on the project. This expenditure of effort can’t be without reward, which means he has a personal stake in the game. With a run for the Senate being probable in the near future, I’d say he’s looking for the credit on this, but I also suspect to a high degree that he has had direct contact with Riddle, in part because Riddle has the clout to make a Senate run nothing more than a fictional contest with Malfoy’s success assured beyond doubt.

They’ve figured out the game we ran in New York. Our policy prohibits the taking of innocent lives, and only under the most extreme duress do we even take direct action against law enforcement and politicians. Central to our secrecy and security as an organization is that we, as much as possible, do not involve ourselves directly in the processes of governance. We steer people to the conclusions we support, eliminate obstacles or create them, disrupt activity or communications, but we do not kill at random, and we do not kill without due consideration. As a result, Riddle’s people have moved the game into the hands of perfectly normal citizens, and to a certain degree this ties our hands.

We’ve plotted a new series of actions we can take to disrupt the project, without civilian casualties. The most immediate is repeated computer attacks against records regarding ownership of property, and against records for zoning and construction permits. Then there are more direct physical attacks against the specialized equipment needed to undertake the work on site. That’s where Harry comes back into play. Last, I mean to undertake attacks against payroll, records and data essential to the operation of crews. All of these are delaying tactics, but I suspect that if Riddle has shifted gears to legitimate contractors and political favors, he’s already frustrated.

This brings me to the next point. Harry’s change of ID was made necessary because Chicago is crawling with people looking for him, both in law enforcement and in private investigation. Riddle managed to get his hands on a backdated photo of Harry at age nineteen, but it isn’t high quality, and the differences between his appearance now and then are enough that we haven’t got much to worry about. The important fact is that all this information came into people’s hands at the same time, and the communications I’ve interrupted all suggest a very high price placed on identifying Harry. They want Harry out of the game…badly. If we keep the pressure on and prove a connection between Malfoy and Riddle, hopefully in the form of communications that can be tapped, or through a meeting with participants that can be identified and followed, we might be able to wrap this up before the summer is out.

All I’ve managed to piece together so far is a connection between private investigators and British lawyer cutting the checks through a dummy corporation. The name Pettigrew came up over and over again. We all know that name. Riddle’s favorite stooge is finally making himself more public than ever. It was inevitable that we’d see the connection between a search for Harry and Riddle’s henchman, and that makes it a safe guess that Riddle just doesn’t care if Pettigrew gets caught in the crossfire. I doubt that Riddle will make any direct calls or contact so soon after having done so before, but at least we have two very solid leads to work on.

The would be senator, Drake’s father, is candidate number one. We’ll be arranging bugging operations against him, and if it’s possible, I think Drake might be of great help in this, especially if we can bring him into play surgically, just once, when no one expects him. I’ll be working on tracking down Pettigrew, but he covers his tracks well and knows how to stay out of the limelight, so I’m not holding out a lot of immediate hope. I’m working on it.

In the coming weeks, Harry will be employed against the targets I’ve outlined here, as soon as most of the equipment is moved into place and is easiest to sabotage. I’ll have an action plan drafted for placing surveillance on Congressman Malfoy by the end of the week, and we’ll determine then whether it’s opportune to use Drake toward this purpose.

That brings me to the last item on the list for today. The Vice Squad is finally moving on Blaise Zabini. I thought you might want to know. I dropped as much into their laps anonymously as I could, and I’ve observed their progress through a little active snooping. It looks like they’re ready to move in…and soon. You can probably catch a little of it on the news if you’re lucky. This kind of bust always makes good headlines, but I can’t imagine that having any impact on sentencing. Best guess is that, even with a decent lawyer, at least several of the charges will stick, for a minimum of at least two to three years jail time…if he doesn’t get an incredibly generous judge, and those are an almost extinct species. It’s unlikely he’ll go for a jury trial, because juries are biased against these kinds of charges, and any lawyer, even a public defender, will advise him against risking the wrath of random strangers. The Vice people have already moved on the storage locker and rented warehouse space I set up in Blaise’s name, and I spotted several fishing expeditions against his computer. It won’t be long before they move on him, now that they’ve assembled enough evidence to merit a warrant for a search. Congratulations…short of a miracle…Blaise Zabini will be enjoying a lengthy stay in the custody of the state or federal institution of the judges choosing.”

It breaks up into specifics and questions for awhile, fingers pointing at marks on a map, Harry making notes on points of entry to various work yards. This is what I do, what I’m a part of now. We scheme, and then we execute. Harry is uncertain about my seeing my father again, but he leaves the idea in my hands, just like before.

This is different. This isn’t some hollow revenge I’ll regret in the middle of the night, wondering if I’ve done right, or just lashed back blindly at someone who shouldn’t matter anymore. It needs to be done, and I think I want to see him. Not to get even, just to say goodbye. I could plant a bug in the room while I do it, but it isn’t just for that. I want him to know I’m alright, coming out ahead even without his help or doing things his way. I can get access to him for more than a few seconds, and close another door on the life I’ll be leaving behind while I do it. It all fits. This I can do, better than any of the others.

Do you believe in coincidence? I’m not sure I do. Not anymore. Everything has a purpose, or a connection, and the struggle is to find it in all the confusion. Everything connected, the end meets the beginning. Like the mythical Ouroborous. The snake devouring its tail. The circle of infinity. I’m leaving behind what I knew…again…like I’ve done before. A lot of times. Everything I’ve ever done or been has led to here, to this, and I have no regrets anymore. Daddy will know that before I go. As for Blaise…whatever happens now is out of my hands.

What really matters is the hand under the table. The calloused, warm one that gives a small squeeze just to tell me that he’s there no matter what. With that to come home to, I am fearless. I think that for the first time in my life, I have the confidence to believe that it will turn out alright, and that I deserve the happy ending the story books promised when I was a child. Thank you, Harry. You think you know what you mean to me, but it’s hard to imagine anyone ever really understanding how much you’re changing who I am…and how I feel about myself. More than flowers or chocolates or a new life where misery has no place…that feeling is the real gift you’ve given me, and I never tire of finding new ways to show that I appreciate every last bit of it.

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“What the fuck!?”

The expression had come from Blaise’s mouth a dozen times already. A perfectly normal morning. Sleeping in while Vinnie and Greg made breakfast. A knock on the door and Vinnie answers it. Cops everywhere. All at the same time, armed to the teeth like they were taking down a terrorist cell or a crack gang, shouting, booted feet, smashed doors and bodies in black everywhere.

Vinnie and Greg were in separate rooms, likely handcuffed on the floor just like Blaise himself. He’d heard the shouts when they’d found Vinnie’s gun, and despite the fact that they were let into the house voluntarily, so far they’d acted like they’d had to fight their way in under heavy fire, and were in mortal danger every second. In theory, they might have been, but in all seriousness, they’d been in Blaise’s home, ripping it to shreds, for almost half an hour while screaming questions at the tops of their lungs, and the only three occupants were cuffed in separate rooms. At this point, pretending that they were ever in danger was beginning to look a little silly.

“I said it before and I’ll say it again! I own a club! The Firehouse! That’s all I do. It’s all legit! I pay fucking taxes like everyone else! What the fuck?! What’s this even about? You keep saying I know…but I don’t know shit…and when I talk to my lawyer…the bunch of you are fucked!”

Someone shouted from the den, voice filled with a kind of sweaty-palmed eagerness that sent a nervous shiver down Blaise’s neck.

“We got it. Tons…from around the world. Looks like we’re almost done here.”

Greg had been sitting in the kitchen, hands cuffed behind his back, still wearing the apron he’d put on while throwing together breakfast. He’d spent the last half hour answering questions the way he always did…minimalist style. He was the cook and housekeeper. Blaise didn’t do anything but run a nightclub. Vinnie was home security because of all the violence on TV lately. Greg didn’t admit to any knowledge of any activity beyond keeping the house looking good and making breakfast and dinner. The other gun they found in the house wasn’t his. He was just an employee making breakfast. When they asked about porn, Greg stared in confusion and just said, “I’m a cook. What the hell are you people talking about?”

They bought it. His name was taken down in all the reports, and they might tie him to the gun at a later date, but they had nothing on him, and didn’t bother anyone but Vinnie and Blaise. Vinnie didn’t have a permit for his pistol, but that was all they had on him. Blaise…they were dragging Blaise out of the house after letting him grab a handful of clothes, while cop after cop hauled out electronics from the den. Blaise was still proclaiming his innocence…loudly…while he was led out to a car. Greg stayed silent. He knew what he had to do. However this shit had happened, Mama Zabini needed to know. He had to stay cool, make it through this, and make it to her place as soon as he could. She could help Blaise and Vinnie with a phone call. It was gonna be alright. Something was wrong about this whole mess, but Mrs. Zabini could make it right.

Never minding that he was trying to cooperate and make this easy, the men leading him seemed determined to make it hard to keep pace with them, and wound up keeping Blaise off his balance the whole while, using every stumble as an excuse to pretend he was being difficult. When the door to the car opened, Blaise probably shouldn’t have been surprised by the hand on his head that guided him in…which suddenly shoved him forward into the edge of the car’s roof. His left temple connected hard and fast with metal frame of the car.

“FUCK! Goddammit! You assholes! What the fuck was that for?!”

Once Blaise was shoved the rest of the way into the car, the door slammed shut behind him while he tried to get the stars out of his vision. There was probably going to be a bump on his head the size of an egg before another hour went by.

“You prick fucks! I’ve been nice about this shit so far. I’m a businessman, not some cheap fuckin’ hood! That shit was police brutality, and I’ve got the lawyers to prove it! I’m gonna own this town before I’m finished with you assholes! What have I done to deserve this shit, huh? You tell me…since you’ll be paying for it!”

The car was already in motion, the streets moving by one by one…but Blaise suddenly realized that the last turn they made wasn’t in the direction of the police station. The scenic route. Three words every criminal dreaded. A polite way to say that the detour they were taking would lead to somewhere quiet, and that by the time Blaise made it to being booked at the station, he’d be in no shape to talk his way out of it. The words ’resisting arrest’ and ’disorderly conduct’ would excuse whatever had happened, like a carte blanche to exercise whatever force was needed to bring him in. They probably wouldn’t hurt his face, because visible evidence of abuse was frowned on…but there was good chance he’d be pissing blood by the time it was noon.

The cop in the passenger seat turned and showed the ugliest smile Blaise had ever seen. Not physically ugly, but the kind of leer that showed the soul of a man who had no qualms about torturing another human being, and who loved the irony that his badge and gun gave him the freedom to do this without the risk of punishment.

“Pucker up, sweetie! We’re gonna make a little stop along the way. Hope you like rough trade, fag boy, ‘cause you’re gonna wish you’d never been born. Hey…Joe…he’s all quiet now. Think he’s getting the picture?”

The driver barely growled under his breath, but Blaise could make out the words that came first.

“Child-molestin’ son of a bitch. They should just let us kill him.”

Nothing came to Blaise’s mind for an answer. Just empty shock. This shit was real. It was some horrible fucking mistake, but it was still real. There had always been a way to make things work out, a way to cut a deal, a little wiggle room in every situation. This was different. This was two men he couldn’t buy, a car he couldn’t stop, and a drive that would end with him flopped across the ground in some empty warehouse while boots and batons hurt him in places that people couldn’t see in a mugshot photograph. A shiver ran down Blaise’s spine, and a hot, tingling, tightness curled around his gut while his pulse pounded in his ears. The feeling was new to him, and when a sheen of sweat broke out across his body, Blaise realized it was terror.

And for the first time in his life, Blaise Zabini was truly, certainly, absolutely terrified…and he was right to feel that way.

TBC!!!