Excerpt from "What Remains"

Chapter 1 from my novel "What Remains" published 2018, Orange Hat Publishing

Chapter 1

Chicago, 1958

Rizzo

The Pioggia Lounge was a squatty, faded, red brick building

tucked between a barbershop and an all-night diner. Both of the

other businesses had three levels of apartments resting above them,

but the Pioggia sat free, alone in their shadows. All three buildings

dated back to the 1880s post-fire construction, and, as with all

things over time, were beginning to look their age. The Cadillacs,

Buicks, and Chevys that sailed by along Taylor St., however, were

shiny, black, and new.

A narrow alley ran behind the bar connecting May Street and

Aberdeen. The light from the flood lamps behind each building

illuminated swatches of soot-stained brick before it was swallowed

by the dark, leaving the center of the alley like a charcoaled chasm

where the edges blurred and melded into a dark tunnel. Rotting

garbage, smoke, and car exhaust mingled together in an offensive

stew and lingered permanently in the air.

The lamp on the rear wall of the interior of the Pioggia

spotlighted the dark outline of the bar’s back door. A creak echoed

through the alley, and the door slowly eased open. The contents

of a stuffed trash bag clanked loudly as it was heaved out onto

the cement. A second bag landed next to the first, and then a

man emerged from the building. He was slim, and his dark slacks

looked loose, like those worn by someone who had lost a significant

amount of weight in a short span of time and didn’t have time to

buy new pants. When he walked, his gait betrayed a favoring of

the right leg. The white button-down shirt he wore was untucked,

and the sleeves were rolled up above his wrists. He wore no hat or

tie and was desperately in need of a shave.

Fabrizzio, “Rizzo,” Marcario Jr. let the back door of the bar

slam behind him. He inhaled the crisp October wind. The rain

storm earlier that evening had significantly driven down the

temperature, and snow felt not far off. After the musty, dense

smokiness of the bar, Rizzo’s lungs welcomed the cool, although

putrid, gusts breathing through the narrow alley. He lugged the

bags over to the dumpster and hoisted them over the edge. The

bottles inside the bags busted with a satisfying crash as they hit

the bottom. Rizzo turned to walk back to the bar, taking his time.

It had already been a long night, and his limbs ached as though he

had spent too many hours crammed into a small car. He hoped he

wasn’t coming down with something. This would be a terrible time

to get sick. Suddenly, the distant, rapid clacking of heels made

Rizzo whirl around. A woman was striding toward him from the

far end of the alley.

It was dark, but not so much so that Rizzo couldn’t tell that

she was a looker. In the dim glow of the street lamps, he could

make out slender calves above dark high-heeled pumps. Her dress

skimmed her knees and fluttered in the wind, her unbuttoned tan

coat flapped behind her, and Rizzo could admire the curve of her

hips and narrow waist. He scanned upwards and saw the gloved

right hand that held her pillbox hat to her head. Dark curls peeked

out from under the cap and the veil shaded her eyes. Her lips

glistened a deep, sensuous red, even in the darkness. Rizzo leaned

against the ashy brick of the bar instead of going back inside so

that he could enjoy her beauty.

A bright swath of light suddenly swished up the alley from

the opposite direction of where the woman had appeared. She

froze like an animal who sensed a nearby predator and watched

as a black Fleetwood crept toward her. Rizzo pressed himself

further into the shadows of the dumpster. The car stopped, and a

man emerged from the passenger side. He lumbered through the

darkness, nearly as wide as he was tall. Rizzo could only see the

back of the man but noted that he was dressed in a dark suit and

black fedora.

The woman stood perfectly still, her face obscured by her veil.

Their voices hummed, but Rizzo couldn’t make out their words.

Then the man’s pudgy hand shot forward. His stubby fingers were

spread as wide as they could, but they still couldn’t stretch all of

the way around the woman’s slim arm. Rizzo watched the action

as if it were in slow motion, paralyzed as the events unfolded in

front of him.

Before Rizzo could shake himself into action, the man in the

fedora tugged on the woman’s arm and pulled her toward the car.

She jerked her arm away from his grasping fingers and whipped her

head around. Her hat flopped off of her head, and she reached out

to snatch it before it fell. Without the veil, her face was fully visible

to Rizzo. At that same moment, her eyes locked with his when

she noticed him standing in the shadows. A flicker of recognition

registered, and she opened her mouth as if to say something, but

then closed it. The other man approached her again and pivoted

her body so that they faced each other, both glaring. Rizzo saw

her shake her head and storm toward the car. The man hurried

behind her, helped her into the back seat, jumped in after her, and

slammed the door. The car barreled forward down the alley, around

the corner, and out of sight.

Heart pounding, Rizzo cautiously looked up and down the alley

to see if there was anyone else there. No one, just the dark windows

of the barbershop, the diner, and the blackness punctuated by small

orbs of light beyond. The alley was deserted. Still shaken, Rizzo

looked at the door to the bar and down at his watch, even though

he knew it would confirm what he already knew. Last call was at

least three hours away, and he would have to stay. Jim Cardozi, his

boss, expected him to stick around and keep an eye on the other

bartenders, even on slower nights. Jim insisted the others skimmed

a little extra off the register.

Rizzo went back inside and walked through the corridor that

led to the main bar area. He peered around the corner into the dark

space. From the jukebox, Dean Martin crooned that ‘everybody

loved somebody.’ Sam and Pete, the two bartenders, were deep in

conversation with Nico Giacomo at the far end of the gleaming

mahogany bar. Rizzo heard the rumor that Nico’s crew ran into

some trouble on the way back to Chicago from one of Jim’s new

Vegas casinos a few days ago, and he imagined Nico was filling

Sam and Pete in on the details. Nico was too valuable for Jim to

lose, but Louie, one of Nico’s grunts and a regular in the Pioggia,

hadn’t been seen since they returned. The rumor was that Jim had

handled him personally, something he rarely did, because the new

Vegas enterprise was critical. Rizzo wasn’t sure he believed the

story, but Sam and Pete insisted that their source was solid.

Rizzo turned and walked back to the small office. He shut

the door behind him and sank into the cracked green leather

chair. Pictures of Jim, black hair slicked back and shining, tight

smile, cigar poking out of the corner of his mouth or held in one

hand, crowded the cherry paneled walls. Every photo showed Jim

posing with the city’s underworld elite, of which he was of course

a prominent member. Rizzo had been behind the camera for many

of those pictures. He had worked at the bar since he was sixteen.

Twenty-seven long years. And, if things went as Rizzo planned,

there would be no twenty-eighth year.