Chapter 2 - The Moretti Whisper
The basement office of the Callahan Freight Depot smelled of stale diesel fuel, old grease, and the sharp ink of printed ledger sheets. Mason Reed sat beneath a green-shaded banker’s lamp, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the black ink tattoos of the 1st Marine Division across his forearms. He didn't look up when the heavy iron door slid open, admitting Vincent and the cold air of the loading docks.
"The girl is clean, boss," Mason said, tossing a thick manila folder onto the metal desk. "We went back ten years. Her husband was a longshoreman named David Miller. Died in an industrial accident at the Gary docks five years ago. No union pension because the company claimed he was off the clock. She took three jobs to pay for the kid's treatments in Peoria. When the kid died, she cleared the debt by selling her house and moving into a rooming house on 63rd."
Vincent sat on the edge of the desk, his long legs crossed at the ankle. "No connection to Sal Moretti?"
"None," Mason shook his head, pulling a cigarette from a pack behind the lamp but not lighting it. "But Sal’s been busy. His crews have been hanging around the San Diego medical center where Dr. Harper’s project is based. Our people out west say one of Moretti’s lawyers was seen at the compliance office last Friday. They’re trying to block the transport waiver, Vincent. They’re using the federal investigation into your transit lines to argue that you’re moving the kids out of state to hide assets from the grand jury."
Vincent’s hand froze on his gold lighter. The air in the office went instantly brittle. "Sal wants them to stay in Chicago."
"If they stay here, they die here," Mason said flatly. "And if they die here, you lose your focus. The outfit knows you’ve been absent from the weekly meetings since November. The captains are grumbling. They think you’re soft because you’re spending twelve hours a day sitting in a nursery with a couple of oxygen tanks."
Vincent stood up, his coat swinging around his knees like a shroud. He walked over to the small high window that looked out onto the rainy expanse of the South Side rail lines. A line of freight cars, bearing the faded blue Callahan Logistics logo, was pulling out toward the western yards.
"I built this network so my children wouldn't have to look over their shoulders every time a car slowed down on the street, Mason," Vincent whispered, his reflection in the wet glass sharp and dark. "If Moretti touches the San Diego waiver, I’ll burn every warehouse he owns from here to Cicero."
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"You can't do that without starting a three-way war with the north side crews," Mason warned, standing up to join him at the window. "The commission won't allow a turf war over a medical dispute, Vincent. They’ll look at it as a personal matter."
"My children are not a personal matter," Vincent said, turning around, his eyes burning with an old, dangerous fire that Mason hadn't seen since the winter of Caroline’s death. "They are the only thing that belongs to me. Tell the crews to double the security at the gates. And tell Eleanor to give Grace whatever she wants from the kitchen. If those kids don't gain two pounds by Thursday morning, the Morettis won't need to block the flight—the doctors will do it for them."
