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Eight
I say that we are wound
With mercy round and round
As if with air:
—Gerard Manley Hopkins,
from “The Blessed Virgin Compared to the Air We Breathe”
His step had a bounce as Roman made his way down from the elevated train platform and headed into the heart of the Loop. He had spent the early afternoon talking to Henry Jennings, and while the news wasn’t as good as it could be, it was good enough. Which was why Roman had volunteered to take it to Capecce himself. A little gloating was called for.
A snarl in foot traffic forced him to slow down, and he drifted to a stop to avoid running into a woman badly in need of a corset. His eyes wandered to the storefront nearest him; his brow furrowed. Jewelry. Rarely did he notice the stuff before he and Sabina got involved, but she was always stopping to drool over some trinket or another when they were out together.
One time it had been a necklace much like the one in this window. Czech in design, a flower motif with some red stone making up the petals. She’d said something about how pretty it was, and he’d promised to buy it for her. As if he could afford to.
Temptation had flickered at the time. If he sold out, he’d be able to shower her with all the pretty baubles she wanted but never actually asked for—that was part of her charm. She had this way of appreciating a thing that made it clear she didn’t need it or expect it. It was what had made him want to give it to her.
As always, he had chosen honesty. And as if to rub his nose in it, the next night he had seen some other well-dressed gangster’s moll wearing an almost identical necklace.
Did Capecce feel the same tug to give her what he couldn’t really afford? Was that why he’d sold out?
Which reminded him. He had a lawyer to torment.
Someone bumped into him from behind, a helpful nudge to get back to business. It was time to forget about Sabina—to tear his gaze from the diamond ring in the shop window that snagged his gaze and force her from his mind forever. The tune of “You Know You Belong to Somebody Else” spilled from his lips in a whistle as he started forward again.
The offices of Birdwell, Stein, & Associates stood in the heart of downtown, on prosperous North LaSalle Street. Gone were the dilapidated buildings of his own neighborhood, or even the hodgepodge of Little Italy, where the worn and tired were shoved up against the redone and rebuilt. Here, everything was scaled up and reaching for the sky, each building vying the next for height and style. His eyes traveled over graceful arches and intricate artwork in concrete and marble, contrasting colors and inlaid words declaring, “Money!” even more loudly than a building’s name or number.
Roman’s whistle turned to one of appreciation when he entered the proud brick building that matched the number he’d scrawled on a piece of paper. The sign proclaimed the law firm had existed since 1890. He knew for a fact that Stein, a German immigrant, hadn’t been one of the title partners at the time, but still. Capecce must have been a heck of a law student to have found a position here straight out of school. If he worked his way up to partner in a place like this, he would bring in the dough, eventually. He’d bring it in faster, though, if he went crooked. He must have been impatient.
Well. Didn’t matter how crooked he was, or how good a student he’d been. He wasn’t good enough to get Manny out of this one.
Roman jogged up the stairs and flashed what his mother had always called his “killer smile” at the red-haired receptionist. She was pretty—very. The kind of pretty that should have made Sabina jealous, if she actually loved Capecce. The kind of pretty that would have made his own mother mutter in Sicilian and threaten to commit murder if she ever found a long red hair on Da’s clothes. “Hello there, Miss…” He eyed her nameplate. “Gregory. Is Mr. Capecce in, by any chance?”
The young woman smiled demurely and glanced down at an appointment book. “He should be in his office. Can I have your name?”
“O’Reilly.”
“Just a moment, Mr. O’Reilly. I’ll go check.” She rose, the sway in her walk bearing evidence of a figure curvier than her serge suit showed. Roman shook his head. It was a crying shame that women were so bent on hiding their shapes these days. He was all for the slenderness that was in vogue, but no curves? Ridiculous.
The familiar scent of Murphy’s Oil Soap teased his nose, matching well the tidy appearance of this outer office. On the walls hung a few framed newspaper clippings featuring verdicts that were presumably big wins for the firm. There was also a pretty decent painting of the Chicago skyline in the colors of sunset. He was still studying that when Miss Gregory reemerged.
Her smile had gone taut. “Mr. Capecce’s in the Point du Sable conference room. If you head back through the hall, it’s the first door on your right. Can I get you some coffee or anything?”
“No thanks,” he replied, not bothered by the cool tone of her voice. He didn’t much care if Capecce had told her anything about him. He breezed right by her and turned into the conference room. Capecce was the only one present, though the number of files on the long table indicated that he was busier than one man ought to be.
The lawyer looked up only briefly as Roman entered. He wore a pair of spectacles, and his hair looked as though it had seen a few frustrated fingers jabbed through it. Roman smiled—then the glint of a white bandage at Capecce’s temple caught his eye. “What happened to you?” Maybe he had somehow landed a punch the other night and it had just slipped his mind.
Capecce didn’t answer but for a distracted, “Hm?” He kept writing on a pad of paper at a furious rate. After adding an enthusiastic period to the end of a long line of chicken scratch, he finally put down his pen and looked up.
Roman tapped his temple. “What happened to your head?”
“Oh.” Capecce touched the bandage. He took off his glasses. “Nothing to worry about. Do you need something, O’Reilly, or are you just trying to give me another headache?”
Oh yes, he was going to enjoy this. Drawing in a contented breath, Roman hooked a toe around the leg of a chair opposite Capecce and pulled it out. He plopped down in it, then proceeded to pick up his feet so he could rest them on the immaculate tabletop. His mother would have boxed his ears and launched into a tirade about manners, but the lawyer didn’t so much as scowl, which took some of the fun out of the position.
“I’m glad to give you a headache anytime, but as a matter of fact I do have a greater purpose for stopping by. It seems you weren’t quite as successful on Friday as you thought. Charges of bootlegging are still being filed. Granted, it’ll only be a fine, but you’re still going to have to appear before a judge.”
