Big Chicago

Big Chicago Part 32...by Samayel


Remus sipped his latte slowly, still not sure if getting anything with caffeine was the hottest of ideas. Dora seemed like she was in a fairly good mood, and even though it was an unusual place to meet, at least for Remus, the atmosphere was cordial enough.

To be specific, it was his first time in Gaia’s Aerie, a lesbian erotic art gallery and coffeehouse in Chicago’s large and culturally diverse gay district, and the only disrupting part of it for him was looking across a table at his ex-wife while sitting next to a huge glossy black and white photo of a statuesque woman with heavily pierced nipples. Tastefully done…but not quite Remus’ element.

Also, Dora’s girlfriend, Luna, was on a ladder just a few feet behind them, carefully hanging a new oil painting for her upcoming show. A symbolic representation of a slice carved from Eve’s apple…which happened to strongly resemble a woman’s labia. Remus wasn’t really up on the ‘modern art thing’, as he called it, but he was fairly sure that anything that made him blush at this stage of his life wasn’t what he thought of as traditional art.

Still, Luna was always nice to him in a doe-eyed, hippy-ish kind of way, smiling even when she rattled off the occasional diatribe against law enforcement and its connections to whatever powers spawned all evil in the universe this week. She never seemed jealous or uncomfortable, and she was often so matter of fact that it was frightening and comforting at the same time. One thing was always true…Luna never lied, and you could count on that. Small wonder Dora was with someone like that…a few years with a secretive, depressed closet alcoholic could do that to a person.

He always felt sheepish near Dora now. Embarrassed about the past, but still connected to it by more than memories. Diana was walking and talking and a complete wonder…but she was a constant reminder of what he’d almost had for a life and let slip through his fingers. Not the cheeriest thoughts, but at least he’d seen so much more of her just lately. Trips to the zoo had been full of wide eyed wonder and squeals of joy. The aquarium had been a complete success, in spite of the brief embarrassment of a potty related accident that really had more to do with Diana’s stubborn desire to keep staring at a new fish instead of making the journey to the toilet. One thing Remus had missed out on was the diaper years, and his experience at freshening up a five year old in a men’s room was severely limited. Even so, it had felt like being a proper parent….which was everything he could have hoped for, even if it was only for a few hours on a Saturday afternoon.

Dora was still beautiful, in her determined, quirky, brilliant way. She and Luna made an odd couple, one just above average height, athletic and deep breasted, hair clipped short-ish and yet still hinting at femininity, the other slim and vague, long hair falling back stick-straight and chatty compared to Dora’s seriousness.

“Remus? What’s up…you’ve been staring at the walls for the last five minutes. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the occasional naked woman…I know better…for a fact.”

Dora nipped at her mocha with a mild smirk while Remus tried to focus his concentration for a second.

“Yeah…I mean no…oh, hell. Not used to a place like this, I guess. Fish out of water, right? It’s cool…sort of…just different. I just didn’t want to talk shop right off the bat.”

Dora smiled. “It’s okay…next time we can meet in the park if you like. I just wanted to pick Luna up tonight before we get Diana from daycare. This was just perfect timing for a little shop talk before the day’s done. Sorry it took a few days to meet, but what did you want to say that wasn’t fit for a phone?”

“It isn’t really unfit…just sensitive, you know. I have this client, and it’s a big job, with a top end payoff if I get the info he wants on this guy. Big money…the kind that really sets things right for a guy. I don’t wanna miss out on this, but it’s been tough going. The kicker is that I’m competing with damn near every P.I. in town, and the rumor is that nobody…and I mean nobody…has found anything worth the big prize yet. That’s unusual enough for starters, but here’s the real twist.

I heard through the grapevine that the guy I’m looking for has at least a few similarities to a guy you might have been looking for…in that prison riot case from last month, right before everything got crazy on the streets. I can’t name my sources, but I was told that a fella named Harry Black was somewhere near the chewy center of that mess at the federal penitentiary. Now all I have is a name…Harry Potter, and a photo…here. Does this bear any resemblance to the guy your looking for?”

Dora took the photo from Remus and squinted just a little. “Little blurry…but he looks too young…is this up to date?”

Remus grinned. “No…it’s not. Add maybe ten years at the most…probably more like five. Just a little above average height…black hair and green eyes. Athletic build. If your Harry Black is my Harry Potter, we might both walk away with a little something that could be useful. That’s why I wanted to meet instead of chat. One, I have no proof and nothing but a hunch, and two, I needed your eyes to give this a once over. The tricky part is that I have no data, I repeat…none, on a Harry Potter or a Harry Black that meets this description. So what do you think?”

Her eyes kept gliding across the picture, making minute calculations based on sketches and vague descriptions from witnesses. Dora sighed.

“I’m not sure, but I do know that no one mentioned a scar or glasses. Eye surgery is pretty normal these days, but plastic surgery? Doesn’t seem likely.”

“Even if the guy in question is supposed to be some sort of CEO playboy? I haven’t got credible confirmation, but that was part of the source information I got. Young, maybe twenty five, athletic, black hair and green eyes, lots of money. The story I got is that he knocked up some debutante and just split, and her dad wants him found so that papers can be served on him, but the fishy part is how much money has been spent on this. Most of the P.I.’s in Chicago, all on the same job, hired by the same guy…a British lawyer named Pettigrew, at the SAME time as your Harry Black turns a prison upside down to whack a few big time cons that are due for parole. I know each little part isn’t that much, but altogether? Something just seems fishy.”

“You’re right. I don’t like it. It just seems off…too connected in little ways to be nothing at all. Maybe it is nothing, but it’s something to look into. I had my own theories about the prison and some of the first underworld executions right after that, but they didn’t sit too well with the FBI suits running the case now. If it was anybody but you, I wouldn’t share this and you know it, but since you brought this up, let me throw some questions your way, okay?”

“Yeah! Hit me with your best shot.”

“We had a lot of weird events that all tied into the first killings after the riot…little things that hinted at big things, but we couldn’t make a solid connection. It’s my hunch that they mean more than people think, but I couldn’t prove it in a court of law. First…power outages on the nights of the first killings, targeting specific neighborhoods for exactly the few minutes it would take a killer to leave the scene. No cameras or other evidence left behind. Second…computer records from the prison referring to Harry Black completely disappeared, and even though he was supposed to have been transferred to the SuperMax facility, no one ever heard from him again. The guy just disappeared like he never existed in the first place. Third…within a few weeks of these incredibly clean, execution style killings, all using different methods, different guns, and targeting different organizations, the power outages stop and the gangs start killing each other off on their own.

“Remus…I think somebody deliberately ignited a multi-gang war. I just haven’t got a reason why. No motive...except dead gangsters…and that’s a lot of effort for something like that. Plus the computer hacking required to knock out the power grid for specific times and places…as well as wiping out records from federal computers? I have nothing to connect either Harry Black or Harry Potter to any of this…except for the prison riot. It all starts there, but how would it connect to here? Any ideas?”

Luna had stepped close to their table, listening raptly while they chattered out possibilities, suddenly speaking up with her usual cheery and matter of fact tone.

“Sounds like a struggle between extra national corporate entities using hired guns and organized crime as a proxy for a greater struggle over world domination. They don’t bother with armies and laws anymore…they’re above those…so that’s the way they settle disputes now. I thought everyone knew that?”

Dora and Remus rolled their eyes and restrained their smirks. Luna. What a freaking trip!

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Greg Goyle knocked politely on the penthouse suite door. Mama Zabini has been devastated by the entire situation, and Greg was pretty sure that she’d even believed that her own son was guilty. He’d tried to contact her immediately, but when Mama Zabini told her people that she wanted no visitors, there were no visitors, and that was that.

Meanwhile, Blaise had been stewing in the city jail and getting shuffled over to county for no explicable reason except that the cops liked making him hard to find. Vinnie had been released on bond with a couple charges for weapons infractions, but nothing serious, and Greg had been knocking himself out trying to keep tabs on where Blaise was all while continuing to try to reach Blaise’s mom. Basically, it had been nothing but a bitch of a couple weeks.

He’d seen Blaise once the first week, three days after the raid, and the poor SOB looked like the cops had just run him over with the car instead of just a little rough handling. Turned out that after getting the ’slow ride’ to the station he’d been dumped in a cell with a couple angry redneck bastards with a grudge, and then the guard mentioned what charges he’d been brought in on. He was in no shape to fight back after a police beating, and the two bastards had worked him over twice as bad as the police had, all before Blaise had ever seen a lawyer.

And that was another matter! Blaise’s lawyer was mostly for taxes, zoning and business law…not criminal trials, and Blaise had only reached him by phone once, and had gotten a number for a lawyer that specialized in criminal defense. After that, he’d been whisked out of the medical ward and bounced back and forth between county and city jails, with the excuse being ’overcrowding’. Sounded legit enough to most people, until you realized that it was awfully silly to move the same people back and forth again and again when keeping them in one place might speed up their court date and cost the state less money. That’s when you could tell that they really meant to rail someone. By the amount of effort they put into making him hard to find!

He’d seen Blaise a second time…the day before yesterday…and Blaise had been coherent enough to repeat one thing, even through lips that were swollen and cracked while they healed. Get to my ma! It felt wrong to say ’I’m trying’, but that was all he could say. He could tell by the look in Blaise’s puffy eye, the one he could still open, that the guy knew his own mom didn’t believe in him. How do you look a guy you’ve known all your life in the face and just mumble excuses? You don’t…you tell him you’re on it, twenty-four seven as long as it takes, and then you hustle your ass to get results.

And that led to Mama Zabini’s door, with the polite guy from the ’old school’ beside you to make sure you didn’t say anything that might upset Mrs. Zabini. He was polite because he was the real deal, with nothing to prove, and could break legs or sink a guy into a cement foundation without even blinking an eye. Nobody…nobody was rude to Mrs. Zabini.

“Mrs. Zabini? Uh…I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s really important. I came because of Blaise. He wanted me to see you. I waited to be, you know, respectful, ’cause you said before that you needed some time. But he really needs your help. I’d never come askin’ favors of you, but this is for Blaise. May I come in?”

Greg wasn’t used to long speeches, and just knowing that the guy next to him was listening for even a sign of disrespect made Greg’s skin prickle with sweat and try to crawl right off of him. Her voice could be heard from behind the door, muffled but still clear enough to make out.

“Just…go away. My son is dead to me. I don’t want company. You’re a good boy…but go away.”

“You heard the lady of the house. Sorry, kid. Take off.”

Sweat was forming on Greg’s head while his pulse pounded in his ears. He could hear the knuckles beside him crack lazily as a reminder that he’d be leaving on his back if he didn’t play nice. Blaise was stuck in some shitbox getting his ass kicked by cops and cons alike, and Greg was stuck in the middle, sweating like crazy in an air conditioned hallway, freaking out because he didn’t what to do.

It wasn’t really a plan…because Greg wasn’t so much the planning type. It was more of a collapse. He hit the floor on his hands and knees and got out the words he’d meant to keep private, knowing he had a matter of seconds before he was dragged out of here by his collar for a stunt like this.

“On my beloved father’s grave, I swear to you Blaise was framed. I know he didn’t do it! I swear to God! You gotta believe me, Mrs. Zabini! I would never, never lie to you. Blaise was legit! If you’ll hear me out…I swear to God you’ll URK!”

One huge hand was around his throat, the other was already jerking his arm back into a lock while he was dragged to his feet. Game over. There was no fighting a guy like this, because the next step was the hospital. Greg struggled for a breath of air while he was dragged back down the hall, listening to the irritated tones of the man holding his throat.

“Punk ass kids. No fucking respect. We’re takin’ the elevator, kid. Be nice and this won’t hurt too much. One thing though…I already dislike you…so please…piss me off some more.”

Like a vision of heaven, the door to the suite opened and a woman dressed entirely in black emerged, chin upright and defiant, eyes hollow with grief but still bright and alert.

“Let him in, Vito. Gregory…I have known you since you were just a baby. You’ve never sworn on your father’s grave idly. Come in…and tell me these things you say you know. Pray that you don’t give a woman false hope, or you will be apologizing to your father in person!”

’I did it! Thank fuckin’ God…I did it. Blaise, buddy…we’ll get you out of this jam yet!’

Mama Zabini’s exact age wasn’t even speculated on out loud. Blaise was her only child, but she’d had a string of husbands in her time, and been the beautiful flower at the side of men of great power and wealth, but she’d outlived one after another. She hadn’t remarried after her seventh husband had passed away of a heart attack, and while Blaise had been growing up she had been rumored to take a lover now and again, but she had never married since, and had always been devoted to her darling child.

No mother wanted to believe ill things of her child, but a mother knew things, and few were blind to a child’s faults even when they weren’t spoken of aloud. Blaise was gay…enough to break a mother’s heart, knowing she’d have no grandchildren from her only child, and she had coped well enough in her own way. Blaise had been fond of the good life, he was proud of his family name and had wanted to be the big shot someday, just like his father had been in his day. He’d been reckless, with the lavish suits and the pretty boyfriends and the drugs that all the young kids liked these days. Still, a mother could love her son just the same.

The boys were always pretty things, as pretty as girls, always young, as young now as they had been when he was just old enough to live on his own. A mother noticed such things. Blaise kept his private life private enough, but there was nothing that failed to reach her ears. Even from a distance, she always knew how her son was doing, and who he was with, and where he was living and how he conducted himself. Always such pretty young boys.

And then this. She’d never dared to think such a thing might be true, until this…this disaster. A fluttering feeling in her chest had told her that this worst of nightmares was real, and that her only child had done the unthinkable, the intolerable…the one crime that even the majority of his own people would never support. It wasn’t unheard of, but it was rare, even in this advanced day and age, when old morals that had forbidden the sale of hard drugs were dead and gone. Anyone who dared to rise to his defense would be suspect, or might find their friends turning on them for supporting such a person. In truth, her own stomach turned at the mere idea of such things. It was easier to push it all away, to forget, to grieve for a child that was no longer worth calling her own.

But…if Gregory was speaking the truth…hope sprung to life and commanded her. It could be true, and not just an idle fantasy that came to her in moments of utter despair. Could Blaise have been framed? He wasn’t in ‘the business’ anymore, even if he had connections and an important family name, but he had been framed once, set up to take the fall for his work as a pusher. He’d slipped the noose by sending one of those pretty boys of his to take his place, and he’d kept his freedom ever since, but could someone have held such a long grudge?

Gregory sat when waved toward a chair, earnest and nervous even while he rubbed his neck and caught his breath. Mrs. Zabini was bringing iced tea of all things, and it seemed so out of place in this den of luxury and comfortable isolation. She seemed weirdly calm…for a woman who had been grieving for almost two weeks…even minutes ago.

For a woman of middle years, Mrs. Zabini was still striking at first sight, even with streaks of gray in raven black hair. She was statuesque, and almost mannish in her confidence where other women were demure and docile. She was also widely reputed to be a woman who did not tolerate fools, and who could bear a long, long grudge. Greg may not have been the ‘plan type’, but he was definitely the ‘live to see old age type’. He would never disrespect a friend’s mother…but Mrs. Zabini was owed more than just everyday respect.

“Talk. Now. Tell my that my son did not do this…and make me believe you.”

Greg took his iced tea and cleared his sore throat hurriedly. “I lived there. For weeks. With Vinnie, too. We went to the club, we followed him around everywhere. He never…and I swear to you…never…did anything like that. The cops said he had a warehouse locker full of equipment. We’ve known him since we were kids and we’d never heard of it. None of us even knew why they were there until the cops started askin’ real crazy questions. I mean…we all knew how it is with Blaise…what kinda club he runs…the kinda people he dates. But he never did anything that woulda hinted at that. They said he was makin’ movies and sellin ’em on the internet. He don’t even own a camera. Not even on his cellphone! I’m just sayin’…we woulda known. I’d swear to it, and if I’m wrong…if I’m wrong I don’t care what happens…but I ain’t wrong. Not about this.”

Mrs. Zabini listened quietly, impassive even while her thoughts raced and danced. A thousand questions rushed to the tip of her tongue, a thousand possibilities better than the reality she had perceived until this morning. Guilt…for not believing better of her own child…even if he was gay, anger…that someone might have engineered such a thing against her only child, relief…that her son might be blameless in this…this calamity.

“You swear…but it isn’t proof…you have nothing to show his innocence, but you vouch for him. Such loyalty is admirable. It will take more than that to help him, but you do give me hope. There are things I can do…they will be done. I will do what I can…and if you see him first…tell him that I will see him soon. What do you know of his dealings…does he have enemies of whom I should be aware? Who would do this to him? Who could? Anything, however small, that you might know…it could help me to speed his freedom.”

Greg sighed with relief. It was a sure thing now that Blaise would be better off, even if they couldn’t get him free right away, the word would come down to treat him right, and even cops knew when to behave if they had a good enough reason.

“We just don’t know, Mrs. Zabini. Everything was going good. The club is legit…right down to the last dollar…he does the books every day like clockwork. We haven’t had any trouble. Not from cops, or other gangs, or anybody. He keeps a little powder around…for personal use…but he doesn’t deal drugs anymore. He’ll introduce people to other people, but he stays out of the risky business. He was even thinking of…you know…settling down a little. Takin’ up permanent housekeeping with Dee…you remember him? The one that took the fall for Blaise back when he was dealing? They were pretty tight since Dee got outta the joint…it was even looking like Dee was gonna be movin’ in soon.”

Greg could be a little slow, but he saw the flick of an eyebrow and the hardness of flint in Mrs. Zabini’s eyes. It took just a second to put it together before she asked the question herself.

“I don’t think Dee did anything…hell…I don’t even think he could make that kinda thing happen. He just doesn’t have that kinda clout. He only got outta the joint a couple months ago at the most. An’ he was nice when he came over, like he wanted the old days back. He had it for Blaise real bad back then, and he was just the same now. I don’t see how he could get that sorta pull with the DA and the cops and set all this up in just a few weeks. Nah…it just don’t seem right. I think somebody from the old days just hates him. Maybe one of the people that set him up before. Somebody with real clout an’ a long grudge. But Blaise…he’s in a bad way, and the cops have him bouncing back and forth so his lawyer can hardly find him while they lock him up with whoever they think will kick his ass the worst. That’s why I begged. We gotta get him outta this…soon…or there ain’t gonna be enough of him left to send to trial!”

Mrs. Zabini kept her own counsel in all things. Greg was a good boy, a loyal friend, but even small things, the sort of things taken for granted, could lead the way to answers. There were many things she would need to do, and seeing to Blaise’s safety was the first, but there would be questions to ask later. Questions placed in the ears of people who could move mountains when they needed to…and they would move mountains if she asked them to do so. She rose from her seat and stroked the young man’s hair with the caress of a loving mother, then kissed his brow.

“Very well. Go. See him if you can, tell him I will find a way to help him…and rest if you are weary. Things can be done to aid him. You have my thanks, Gregory. I know your father would be proud of you…such a good man you’ve become…to be so loyal to a friend…to my son. Go with God.”

“Yes, ma’am…thank you…thank you so much. I’m just glad I could help. Bless you, Mrs. Zabini…I know Blaise will rest easy the minute he knows you’re lookin’ out for him. Thank you.”

A minute later Gregory Goyle was gone, down to the ground floor and back into the world of cars and noise and people while Blaise Zabini’s mother sat in the cool silence of her suite, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, imploring the heavens for some guidance and steeling herself for the arrangements that would have to be made. Her phone would be her constant ally for the days to come, and there were so very many people that she would need to help her child…but when time permitted, there was one other person she would need to see. Someone who did not travel, whom she would have to seek out and pay respect to accordingly. There was someone who could answer questions even when others could only offer guesses. She would need…the Strega.

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‘Motherfuckin’ bastards…again. Fucking again! Every time…every fuckin’ time I get patched up…they pull this fuckin’ shit! It never fuckin’ ends!’

He’d been out of the doctor’s care for less than two hours. They’d taped the gash over his left eye, set and bandaged his nose, cleaned and dressed the worst scrapes and small cuts and even…miracle of miracles…given him a painkiller that was almost worth a shit. He’d been out cold for most of the day after that, and allowed to rest up until the doctor was sure he was stable. Then they dumped him back into population. He was back in the city jail…among the temporary holding places for people who had been charged and arrested but hadn’t yet been tried and sentenced. If his lawyer hadn’t been a sniveling piece of shit, if he’d been able to reach the guy he’d been referred to, if they hadn’t been making him so hard to fucking find…he’d have posted bail and been out of here by now. At this fucking rate he could have been assigned a lawyer by the state and gotten things moving faster, but a state appointed lawyer was the equivalent of saving the cops the trouble and just shooting yourself in the face. The whole situation was fucked.

And that led to here. A new cell. New cellmates. New bullshit. Blaise knew perfectly fucking well that he’d been framed, but the question was who…the cops, his own people, one of his many ex-boy toys, or even Dee, though it didn‘t seem fucking possible. It didn’t matter right now, but it would matter soon. What mattered now was that no one here cared if you were framed…and most of the time they only cared about what kind of connections you had.

He had none. There wasn’t much to be proud of in jail, and people had a way of turning their shame into their pride. A killer was worthy of respect…a rapist took sex where and when he pleased…a drunk or a junkie was feeding a habit and did what they had to…but there was no social ladder for gay nightclub owners charged with the crimes that Blaise had been charged with. He was a free target, connected to no one, held in contempt by all, and when a guard drifted by and mentioned his charges casually to the men near him, the steely looks of opportunistic hatred were uniform.

‘You. You we can hurt. No one will care. No one will punish us. No one will look for revenge.’

That was what he saw in their eyes. They weren’t even restricted to nights. No one admitted to witnessing anything. They just didn’t care enough to be bothered. In the morning, if he couldn’t get up, the guards would haul him off to the infirmary again, and the process would start all over.

This time was going to be different. Worse. He could already tell, even through eyes that were puffed and blurry. The tall, black man in front of the others was no lightweight arrested for DUI or domestic charges. In a week or so he’d be on the way to a penitentiary, where he’d probably been sent several times before. He was a wall of muscle, head shaved and gleaming under cheap fluorescent lights, and what was coming next wasn’t going to be an ass-kicking by some generic redneck with an attitude. The first punch had sent his head spinning while he slid to the floor, and he’d lost the will to fight back days ago. If he’d walked into this place in good condition, he might have had a chance to prove himself, but he’d been limping his way along since he got here, never given a chance to heal well enough for it to matter. The end of this was already a forgone conclusion…all that was left was to wait for it to be over…wait to wake up in the infirmary again.

“All you spaghetti-eatin’ motha-fuckas stick together. Little bird told me you was mafia, but they won’t touch yo ass now. You don’t look like no ‘made man’ to me. So tell me…Mr. I-talian ‘Made Man’…how’s it feel to be made into a bitch?”

It was going to be worse…much worse. There was a place where you could go no lower…where anything like hope was dead. You either broke and crumbled into a million tiny shards, or you ceased to care what came next.

Blaise Zabini lifted his chin and smirked, showing white teeth streaked with fresh crimson blood from the torn lip that had reopened from that last punch. Then he shrugged the shoulder that hurt the least.

“How does it feel to need three promotions just to become a fuckin’ prick piece of shit…fucker?”

‘I’m gonna regret that in about five seconds, but the look on his face was fuckin’ worth it. Aww…shit. This is gonna hurt…

And it did.


TBC!!!

Author’s Notes: I’d like to offer a special apology to all who have waited patiently. I won’t bore you with endless details about my personal life, but it has been quite exhausting lately. I am sorry for the delays, but I’d like to take this opportunity to assure everyone that I still write when I get free time, even if its just a few hundred words at a time, and that all ongoing projects are still ongoing! More will come, and as my life slowly calms to a normal pace more chapters will start to come with the speed that people usually expect from me. Thank you all for your reviews, your encouragement and for your patience. These are things that keep me writing even when I feel utterly exhausted, and I thank you so very much. Until the next chapter…be well!