Calumet City by Charlie Newton Page B

hitmen as notorious as Harry Aleman and some say the occasional presidential election, 1960 for sure. When he’s not doing the public’s business, Toddy Pete Steffen is a
big deal
insurance broker, big in the insurance biz like Alan Dorfman was before the Outfit capped him.
    "Toddy Pete’s very pleased with your performance, thinks you need another commendation. Personally, I’d recommend a convent. Of late, the stars do not seem to be aligned in your favor."
    I hear reporters yelling and say, "Nice of the press to notice."
    The superintendent of police straightens a bit. "That’s not why they’re here."
     
     
     

THURSDAY
     
     
     

Chapter 6
     
THURSDAY, DAY 4: SUNRISE
     
     
       Lake Shore Drive, heading south. I’m out of the hospital, that’s the good news—tan, rested, and ready, having snuck past two groggy reporters without answering a question. The bad news is everything else Chief Jesse said. IAD is waiting on me, licking their lips. The clothes I’m wearing are ruined, including most of my Cubs hat and Julie’s shirt—that’s two of hers in two days—and I smell like an oil furnace.
    Thursday’s sun leaps out of the water, glaring dead-level across Lake Michigan. I add Ray-Bans but they only block half. All I can do is squint and hope the car in front doesn’t stop. My cell vibrates but I can’t answer until I can see better. When I first got to my car my cell had six "911" messages from Tracy Moens, five of which I haven’t listened to, and one from Sonny Barrett that said "Call me at 0-10 hundred."
    I know what Tracy and Sonny want to talk about. To steal a phrase just used on the radio, it’s the kidnap that almost burned me to death and has the whole city sideways. Chief Jesse told me before he left my room that the person the SUV kidnappers grabbed was not just an assistant state’s attorney, but the ASA heading the mayor’s assassination task force.
    This is big news. And whether the kidnap is tied to someone taking three shots at His Honor and almost killing his wife or not, it represents a certain brazenness not seen in this city since Al Capone. And that Outfit comparison isn’t lost on anyone with both eyes open. The jazzy radio banter quits and Cameron "Superfly" Smith says almost twenty-four hours have passed and there’s been no ransom demand.
    No ransom demand is not good news for Richard Rhodes. Cops are rarely cheerleaders for state’s attorneys—they blame us for all courthouse failures—but I shiver for this one’s situation and knock the dash twice above my radio. There aren’t any prayers you can say for captives; God doesn’t listen to those.
    Before I report back to 18 this a.m., I’m trying to get to my locker in 6 via what the Northsiders call the "Whiteman’s Expressway." They call it that because Lake Shore Drive’s northern half runs along the Gold Coast and its yacht harbors to Evanston and leafy North Shore society beyond. Most of my trip will be on the southern half because it runs to Ghetto Central via Forty-seventh Street, Stoney Island, and Seventy-ninth Street.
    The plan is to dodge the Ayatollah’s pickets at 6, clean out my locker, then stop by the duplex, feed Jezebel and Bathsheba, change clothes, and tell Stella not to worry if she watched the news last night, and not to plan a wedding if she didn’t. Me and traffic are crawling over a drawbridge that spans the river and the glare makes us all Ray Charles; it’s now clear why so many Northsiders working downtown die in traffic accidents. My leg vibrates again, I answer this time and try not to drive into the lake or the river.
    The superintendent of police says, "Phone transfer. You’re reassigned to the Intelligence Unit."
    I don’t have to ask by whom. Only he can order two phone transfers in two days. To describe that as suspicious would be to understate the Virgin Mary appearing in Gerri’s Palm Tavern. "Can I ask why?"
    "Front page, today’s
Herald
—the task force ASA,