She made a panicky grab at her breasts, and when she first felt them in the dark, they felt as if they had been badly scratched. Very badly scratched.

  She sat up straight and punched on the overhead light, and that was when she saw. She had screamed and quickly dressed herself. She ran crying, horrified, from Victor Harrow’s mobile office.

  Thank goodness her ten-year-old Impala was still parked outside, and thank goodness the keys were in her pocket.

  She turned the key and the motor kicked right over. She flicked on the lights, and the purple exterior of Victor Harrow’s mobile office—a converted $500,000 bus—rippled in her headlights.

  She gunned the Chevy V8 and squealed her tires on the asphalt parking lot that fronted Victor Harrow’s heavy equipment yard on East Washington. She was a mile beyond Orbit, a mile from the town square.

  She fumbled her cell phone out of her purse and found no fewer than eleven messages, increasingly frantic, from Stacy, the fifteen-year-old who stayed with Jaime until Mom got off at ten and came straight home. Last night Ermeline had accepted an invitation from Victor Harrow for a quick pop-in to the mobile office to help him celebrate a new paving contract—one small glass of bubbly that was scheduled to last no more than twenty minutes. She was doing it as a favor—and because Victor left oversized tips for the waitresses and she wanted to remain in his good graces. She had phoned Stacy at ten and told her she would be a half hour late; Stacy had called her parents and asked permission, and Stacy had reported to Ermeline that a half hour delay was fine with her parents. Ermeline floored it and drove all the way home in tears. What had she done? What had been done to her? She had to hold Jaime and make sure he was all right. Then she had to get in front of her own mirror in her own bathroom and see if the nightmare was really real.

  3

  The governor’s mansion was located in Springfield. But, because of the huge number of state employees—not to mention registered voters—in Chicago, most governors maintained a residence there too. On the taxpayers’ dime, of course. And Governor Cleman L. Walker was no different. He kept a beautiful 1920 tri-level on the Gold Coast, a historic district in Chicago, part of Chicago’s Near North Side community area. Big home. Big man.

  The governor himself was short in stature but long on mythology: it was said while he was a Chicago precinct committeeman he had seen more than one uncooperative political crony chained and dumped in nearby Lake Michigan, and that, while he was quick to pull the trigger on politicians of the opposite political party, he was equally as quick to head up a dozen charitable drives a year.

  Today he was in his private study, reclined in a leather chair, whiskey and water in hand, a Cuban cigar burning nearby, enjoying the trouncing the Bears were handing to the Cowboys.

  Really only half-interested in the football game, occasionally he would check his Rolex. Bang Bang Moltinari was already a half hour late and Cleman L. Walker was beginning to wonder if the man was late simply because something unexpected had come up or if his late arrival aimed at proving a point about his sovereignty from the governor.

  He took another deep drag off the rolled Cuban tobacco leaves. “The best,” he murmured and rolled the cigar in his fingers admiringly. He closed his pale blue eyes, savoring what few Americans got to savor anymore—Cuban smoke. Within two minutes, one of his three cell phones rang. It was Robert K. Amistaggio, the Illinois attorney general.

  “Bob?” the governor said. “I’m going to need to talk to you for about ten minutes tomorrow. Confidential, my office.”

  “Done. What time?”

  “Noon. We’ll have lunch brought in. You still like the oysters?”

  “I do. Should I bring any files along?”

  “Bring what you have on Victor Harrow.”

  “Who?”

  “Victor Harrow of Harrow and Sons. He’s a two-bit contractor out of Orbit. He has the contract on the Springfield-Chicago run.”

  “Name doesn’t ring a bell. We need to control him?”

  “We do. And if we can’t do it through your office, I’ll have to go to the mat with him.”

  “Anything I should look for?” said the AG.

  “We need to figure out where he’s vulnerable. He’s stiffing us.”

  “How far behind?”

  “The contract is 75 percent paid out. We’re in for half. He’s paid us less than one-fourth. Word is, he’s done and refuses to pay another dime. This cannot continue. Either the AG’s office or Bang Bang is going to have to enforce.”

  “Another cowboy.”

  “Yes, he’s got a wild hair from somewhere—you know what I always say.”

  “A wild hair from somewhere.”

  “See you at noon, then.”

  Ricardo “Bang Bang” Moltinari was the namesake and head of the Moltinari mob. This was the mob that controlled Chicago, operating primarily out of Skokie, where the key labor unions and building trades offices were located.

  Like the governor, Bang Bang also lived on the Gold Coast, except that while the governor’s residence was English countryside and consisted of a home and attached three-car, Moltinari’s spread was a Historic Register enclave walled in by indigenous rock and mortar.

  Bang Bang left home that day handcuffed to a Halliburton aluminum briefcase. He exited the gates in a bulletproof Cadillac sedan and was backed up by a Cadillac SUV bristling with guns behind black-out windows. The windows were illegal, but the cops knew better than to hassle one of the governor’s key friends. In short, Bang Bang was immune. He enforced the governor’s state contracts, and in return the governor protected Bang Bang’s crime syndicate. That’s the way it had been done for 100 years in Chicago, and it wasn’t ever going to change—not as long as the Chicago politicians and the Chicago mob were in charge and running things.

  Bang Bang’s entourage headed southeast, toward Lake Michigan. As they clipped along at twenty over and careened around corners, a lookout was kept for other cars that might try to cut them off or follow too close. Those idiots were menaced with a gun barrel or a killer stare-down from one of the vehicles. Mostly, though, the people of Chicago knew that there were certain cars and certain neighbors one simply did not approach. To do so was to risk life and limb.

  At 3:45 Bang Bang’s procession screeched into the governor’s lot and proceeded to park. A small army of Illinois State Policemen, all burly and scowling, peered inside the cars and cautiously allowed the visitors to exit their vehicles. They were prudently searched but allowed to retain their firearms unless they were going inside to meet with the governor.

  Bang Bang was first out. The briefcase dangled from his wrist while he put his hands on top of the car. He was frisked by an angry-looking sergeant. A state trooper escorted him to a side door of the governor’s house and knocked twice. An interior state trooper took him from there. The leftover police and mobsters lolled around the two black vehicles. They smoked. They engaged in stare-downs. Nobody minded; everybody stared right back. Here were nature’s natural enemies come together on solemn ground, where the outside rules didn’t apply, where the lions let the lions alone. There was a high degree of mutual respect and mutual distaste. Each group had its orders. You better damn well get along with the other side if you want to keep working this easy duty. Everyone obeyed. At the end of the day, it was easy and safe duty. No one would ever be insane enough to make an attempt on either the governor or on Bang Bang.

  Bang Bang Moltinari followed the state trooper into the governor’s office. “Morning, Your Honor,” he snarled at the governor, upset that he had been called away from family on a Sunday. His son was home for midterm break from Harvard where he was pre-law, and his twin daughters were home from the University of Illinois in Urbana.

  “You’re looking old today,” the governor said and laughed at his poor attempt at humor.

  Bang Bang wasn’t amused. “We got problems get me out this cold Sunday?”

  “We do. We got some customers who are neglecting their payments to our little fund.”

  “What, we couldn’t do this Monday?”

  “I’m leaving for a governors’ conference in San Francisco after lunch tomorrow. Too late. Don’t worry. I’ve only got three names for you.”

  “I’m listening. Who’s first?”

  The governor pulled a page from the back of the legal pad on his desk. “Great Lakes Underpass and Overpass, LLC. Late as always.”

  “GLUO again? I warned that son of a bitch to keep up with his contracts. How much?”

  “Well, I’m down 150K for the month, and GLUO’s portion is thirty-five.”

  “Got it,” said Bang Bang. “A call from me will jar this guy loose. Next.”

  “Midland Freeway and Secondary. They have four paving jobs open east of Springfield, and the management has changed due to a shareholders’ restructure. The new owner is playing dumb, like he’s never heard of us.”

  “We’ll visit him first thing in the morning. We’ll make sure he understands the program. How much we light?”

  “Fifty grand give or take five. Fifty makes me happy at this point.”

  “Done. Who’s the third?”

  “A nobody out of Orbit. Name of Victor Harrow, Harrow and Sons Construction.”

  “Poor Victor. He picked a damn poor time to stop paying if he’s the reason I’m over here on Sunday.”

  “He’s a large part of the reason. He’s into me for one-ten.”

  “110G’s?”

  “That’s right.”

  Bang Bang spread his hands. “Look, you gotta tell me these things right away. This guy’s way over on the skim. He’ll cry like a pig when we demand the whole play up front.”

  “Let him cry. My people tell me he’s been paid three-fourths on his bid contract. There’s only about a fourth left, and he says, ‘Enough.’ He says he’s done with us. We’re in for half. He’s paid less than a fourth.”

  “Stupid SOB. What do you want from me here?”

  “Just put the fear in him. He’s a nobody. But he’s high profile in his crapola little town.”

  “Johnny Blades?”

  “Johnny’s perfect. Just don’t break anything on the guy. We only need him scared. And tell Johnny not to come back without at least fifty grand on him. Persistence is what this is going to take. Johnny might be down there a couple days.”

  Bang Bang smiled. “You don’t know Johnny. He can say more to a man in thirty seconds than anyone I’ve ever known. And I’ve known plenty.”

  “I don’t doubt that, Bangman. I don’t doubt that.”

  “So what else we got?”

  “Like I say, I’m 150K light this month. Make it a happy holiday for me, yes?”

  “Done. Until next time.”

  The governor’s eyes narrowed. He gave Bang Bang his coldest look. “Aren’t you forgetting something,” he said, holding up his hand while his face glowed red. “Don’t you have a little something for me?”

  Bang Bang smiled and opened the briefcase. He pulled out a stack of banded $100 bills and bounced them against his knee. “It’s all there. 75K, all from yesterday, all from Michigan Avenue.”

  “Bless those merchants. They are going to be very happy when we allow them to open for Black Friday on Thanksgiving Day. They deserve no less.”

  “Black Friday, Pink Tuesday, who gives a big damn?”

  “I do, Bangman, I do.”

  4

  Johnny “The Blade” Bladanni pulled the cell from his inside coat pocket. He hit speed dial and Bang Bang Moltinari immediately answered, “Go, Blade.”

  “This guy got a bus for an office?”

  “Could be.”

  “Why didn’t no one tell me it was a bus? I’ve never broke in a bus before.”

  “Don’t break in. Get invited. Goodbye.”

  Johnny frowned at the disconnection. He was a swarthy man, early thirties who looked early twenties, with his baby face and baby blues. But everything baby about him ended there. He was wearing a silver sharkskin suit with $2,000 Gucci’s, silver shades hiding his eyes, and a sixties-style pompadour such as the East Coast crooners wore.

  The car was one of Bang Bang’s Escalade SUVs, black in color, with plates that were protected by the State of Illinois DMV in case Johnny got pulled over. The designation meant to any law enforcement officer: Hands Off, The Driver is Connected. He was sitting across the street from Victor Harrow’s construction yard in Orbit where the purple bus sat just outside the gate, ready to roar off to a troubled job site on a moment’s notice.

  Johnny was parked westbound, headed toward Orbit, and he had no flashers blinking. The lane he was in was a traffic lane, but he really didn’t give a damn. Let the fools figure it out, he thought. Besides, he’d only be a minute or two.

  He felt around in his shirt pocket and produced a driver’s license photo of Victor Harrow. “Ugly bastard,” he commented. “Bet you ain’t getting much action.”

  An eighteen-wheeler came up behind and blew out its air brakes sliding to a stop behind Johnny.

  Johnny flipped the guy off, which no one saw due to the black windows. He laid down rubber and wheeled the Caddy from the right lane across three lanes of traffic, up and across the driveway, and nosed in beside Victor’s bus. “Now eat it and die,” he muttered to the trucker.

  He checked his hair in the rearview and went inside.

  “I’m here to meet with Victor Harrow,” Johnny said to the gum smacker behind the first desk.

  The girl looked up from her screen. “Is he expecting you?”

  “He oughta be, you get my drift.”

  “Who shall I tell him is calling?”

  “Just tell him I’m here from the governor’s office. He’ll understand.”

  “Don’t you have a name, sir?” The gum smacking increased in speed along with the woman’s frustration. “Mister Harrow is very busy, and it’s my job to screen all drop-ins.”

  “Tell him it’s Johnny Bladanni from Chicago. That name opens lotsa doors.”

  “Very well.” She buzzed Victor on the telephone and waited. No answer. She buzzed again. Still no answer. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bladna—“

  “Bladanni. B-L-A-D-A-N-N-I.”

  “I’m sorry, but it looks like Mr. Harrow might have slipped out for lunch.”

  “And what time does he get back?”

  “Probably late tonight. He has stops to make at job sites.”

  “What’s he driving?”

  “Why? You plan on pulling him over?”

  “No, you know, just in case I happen to see him.”

  “Company truck, purple top, cream bottom. Says ‘Harrow—”

  “I get it—‘Harrow and Sons’ down the side. Am I close?”

  The gum smacker sniffed. “Will that be all, Mr. Bladanni?”

  “For now. Just for now.”

  “Do you have a card you’d like to leave for Mr. Harrow?”

  “Lady, you don’t want to see my card,” Johnny smiled, patting his inside pocket where he kept his ten-inch switchblade. “Ain’t nobody lookin’ to see my card. Later.”

  “All right, I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

  “No, let’s make it a surprise when I come back tonight.”

  “Goodbye, sir. Have a nice afternoon.”

  “In this town? What, you know somethin’ fun to do here that I ain’t figured out already?”

  “Thanks again.”

  “Later.”

  Victor Harrow was lunching on short ribs and noodles, the noon special at the Red Bird Inn, a mile west of Orbit. It was a low-slung, whitewashed restaurant from the forties with a sign out front in the shape of a ten-foot-high cardinal.

  Victor Harrow’s lunch guest was Bud Leinager, attorney at law, who nested in a Victorian office one block west of the Orbit town square. Bud was the son of D.B. Leinager, the eighty-nine-year-old lawyer who drank coffee with Thaddeus.

  Victor’s face was broad and pitted. He’d started his career as a pipeline welder, working as an ironworker on the Alaska Pipeline, before hanging up his helmet and gloves and returning home to Orbit where he established Harrow and Sons Construction in 1982. As a welder in Alaska, there were days he wore only goggles, and the constant sparks and hot metal had scarred him.

  “Bud, I’ve got a problem,” Victor said and forked a load of rib meat and noodles into his mouth.

  “Mmm,” Bud muttered and went back to carefully slicing away the gristle from the meat. “Somebody needs to talk to the cook. This ain’t meat. It’s fat.”

  “I say I’ve got a problem.”

  “What happened? You stiff some sub? Hey, it’s going around, Vic. Try not to lose any sleep over it.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  Victor slurped his iced tea. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I haven’t been paying my kickbacks.”

  “You what? Have you gone nuts, Victor? You always pay upstairs,” he hissed across the table. “That’s playing with fire—to stiff the upstairs.”

  “I know. I know that. It’s just—I don’t know. With Marleen and Bruce doing so well, I started thinking. ‘What the hell am I doing?’ I asked myself. ‘Why am I paying off the governor?’ After all, Bruce isn’t and he’s doing gangbusters. I wanted to flip them off. I wanted to yell, ‘Hey, screw you!’ one time. It just got to me.”

  “How much you behind?”

  “It’s the Springfield-Chicago job. Probably a hundred.”

  “A hundred as in thousand? Are you serious, man?” Bud paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. He wasn’t sure he heard right. “You’ve held out a hundred grand on the governor and his boys?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  Bud looked around and ducked his head. “Hey, you don’t mind I move to a different table, do you? You’re like radioactive, my friend.”

  Victor picked apart a slab of rib. “So what do I do?”

  “Pay up. Now, like yesterday.”

  “And if I haven’t got it?”

  “Borrow it. Sell something. Sell some of Betty Anne Harrow’s diamonds.”