I Hid Vito's Ledger Now Chicago Wants Me novel · Chapter 3 of 3
Chapter 3: Taylor Street
Matteo drives her to Joe's flat above the shop. Joe admits Vito's men beat him in the spring and never asked for money. Lucia hides the copy under the floorboard. A brick comes through the window with a note.
The flat above the shop has two rooms and a kitchen with a window that looks at a wall.
Dad is sitting at the table in his sweater with a pencil in his hand.
He isn't writing anything.
He's just holding it.
"You're up late," I say.
"I heard the door."
I put the kettle on because it gives me something to do with my hands.
Matteo stands in the doorway with his wet jacket still on.
Dad looks at him for a long time.
Then he puts the pencil down.
"You're the Santangelo boy."
"I'm Matteo."
"I know who you are." Dad's voice is flat. "You own my route."
"I own the paper on your route."
"Same thing."
The kettle starts.
I get three cups down and then remember there are only two chairs.
Dad pushes his over toward Matteo with his foot.
"I'll stand," Matteo says.
"Sit down."
Matteo sits.
I stand by the stove.
"April," I say. "Two men came up here in April."
Dad doesn't answer.
"You told me you fell."
"I did fall."
"Dad."
He rubs his knuckles with his other hand.
"They came in the afternoon," he says. "Two of them. Polite. Asked about a notebook."
Matteo is very still in the chair.
"What did they ask."
"Where I kept the payments. Not the route money. The other money." Dad looks at his pencil. "I told them I didn't keep anything. One of them held my arms and the other one did it."
"Did it how," Matteo says.
"With a phone book." Dad almost laughs. "You see that in movies and you think it's made up. It's not made up. It works."
The kettle whistles and I take it off the burner.
"Did they take anything," Matteo says.
"No."
"Did they ask for money."
"No." Dad shakes his head. "That's the thing. They never mentioned money once. They wanted paper."
I pour the water into the cups and my hand is shaking enough that I spill some.
"They said if I talked to anybody, they'd come back," Dad says. "So I didn't talk. I fell down the stairs."
I set his cup in front of him.
"Why didn't you tell me."
"Because you'd have done something stupid." He wraps both hands around the cup. "And you did."
"Dad."
"I know you cut the coat." He isn't looking at me. "I saw the seam. I taught you that stitch."
Matteo looks at me.
I look at the floor.
"I need to move it," I say.
"Move what," Dad says, and then he understands, and his face goes old. "No. No, take it to the police."
"The police are on the list."
"They're not on any list."
"They're on the list, Dad."
I go down the back stairs to the shop, and Matteo follows me, and neither of us says anything the whole way.
I kneel by the end of the counter and lift the mat and the board under it.
The paper is still in my pocket, so I take it out and fold it smaller.
The floorboard under the counter has a knot in it you can lift with a fingernail.
I've known about it since I was eleven.
I put the paper under there and press the board back down.
Matteo is standing over me with his arms folded.
"Under the floorboard," he says.
"Yes."
"That's where you keep it."
"That's where I keep it."
"Your father's shop burned in 1998 and he rebuilt it." He looks around the ceiling. "You're sure."
I stand up.
"No," I say. "I'm not sure."
He almost smiles, and then the window goes.
The glass comes in over the cutting table in a sheet, and something heavy hits the floor and rolls.
I'm on the ground with my arms over my head before I decide to move.
Matteo is at the window in two steps with his back to the wall.
Then he's out the front door and gone.
I stay where I am for a count of ten and then I get up.
There's glass in my sleeve and glass in the pile of coats.
The brick is on the floor by the register.
There's paper wrapped around it with an elastic band.
I pull the band off with my sleeve over my fingers.
The paper is a piece of my own receipt roll, from my own register.
The writing is in marker, big and flat.
THE SHOP BURNS FRIDAY.
Matteo comes back in with rain on his face.
"Nobody on the street," he says. "Car's gone."
I hold the paper out to him.
He reads it twice.
Then he folds it and puts it in his jacket.
"Friday is tomorrow," I say.
"I know what day it is."
"Matteo."
He looks at the window and then at the register and then at the floorboard under the counter.
"Pack a bag for your father," he says. "You're both coming to Lake Forest tonight."
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