“What?” Ransom asked, amused. “He died nearly ten years ago.”
“Just wondering.”
“And I didn’t talk to him for a few years before that.”
“Oh. That must’ve been tough.”
Not really. Ransom was silent.
Upshaw looked up, caught the gray eyes and then down again at dishwater that was pretty much the same shade. “Means you didn’t much happen to cross paths with any of the other boys he worked with?”
This was laughable. “No, I didn’t know anybody at the company.”
“Company?”
“Bud, what’s this all about?”
“Oh, nothing, sir. Just curious. You were talking about old times and I was thinking the same. Walk down memory lane,” he said with a big phony smile on his face. “So.”
But Ransom wasn’t going to put up with any crap. He was enduring this hard pilgrimage to find out about his father, and this man obviously knew something. He fired a glance the man’s way and touched his arm, gentle but insistent. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Though Ransom believed he had a pretty good idea and it made perfect sense.
A woman.
Stan had been having an affair and Upshaw knew about it. Dad had probably brought the slut here dozens of times. Maybe the bar owner was worried about shattering Ransom’s memories of his dad. But to judge from the wariness in his face, he guessed that it was more likely his father had threatened him to shut up about it.
Ransom understood something else; he guessed his mother knew, too. There had to be some reason she graduated from beer to wine to vodka.
“Really, please, sir.” Voice quivering.
“You don’t tell me, I’ll just go through my father’s address book from back then and start calling people. They’ll give me some answers.” There was no address book — Ransom hadn’t inherited anything but a few thousand from an insurance policy — but for his job he’d learned to bluff. He was good at it. But he hadn’t meant his words as a threat, simply a prod to get the man to spill.
So he didn’t understand the alarmed reaction. “No, no, you don’t want to do that!” Now, Upshaw’s hybrid complexion paled. The resulting color was eerie. “Look, let’s forget it. Please.” He was begging. “You want some breakfast? It’ll be on the house, for old times’ sake.”
Ransom tightened the grip on Upshaw’s arm then flattened his hands on the bar, as if planting himself, never to leave until he had some answers.
Upshaw swallowed and went to get himself some coffee he didn’t seem to want. He returned and fiddled with the sugar shaker, poured in what seemed like a half cup. He didn’t stir it. “You’re not…you’re not law, are you?”
“Law?”
“Police, or whatever?”
Confused, Ransom muttered, “I’m a salesman, computer products.”
Now Upshaw’s own gaze grew tight, as if he were a truth detector.
Instinct told Ransom to relent. “Look, Bud, my dad was a mystery to me. This was his favorite hangout after he’d get home from his company. I thought you could tell me a little about who he was, what he talked about, what he did. That’s all.”
Now, lapsing back to his whisper, Upshaw looked around the tavern. “Okay, sir. Well, first of all, this wasn’t a place he’d stop in after work. This was his office. And as for who he was, please, I’m sorry. Your father was an enforcer.”
“A what?”
“He killed people for a living.”
Bud Upshaw was leaning back, now clutching the coffee as if he was going to fling it Ransom’s way and flee in the event of an attack.
But Ransom Fells simply laughed. “You’re crazy. You’re out of your fucking mind.” Maybe the old guy was senile.
“No, no. I wish I was. It’s true, sir.”
Not smiling any longer. “Bullshit.” Still, though, Ransom remembered the look of relief on Upshaw’s face when he learned that his father was dead. Maybe, for some reason, Upshaw had lived in fear of his father. And the old man now said with complete sincerity, “No, it’s not.”
“Tell me.”
“Mr. Kale I mentioned?”
At the ghost table.
“He was Stephan Kale.”
Ransom had no clue.
“Kale was a lieutenant for Doyle back in the seventies and eighties.”
“Wait. Bobby Doyle?”
“You heard of him?”
“Something on A&E or the Discovery Channel.” Head of a largely Irish gang on the South Side of Chicago and in Cicero. Here, too, northern Indiana. Doyle was dead or in prison but the outfit was still around, Ransom believed.
“Stephan Kale ran their Gary operation from here.” Upshaw waved his arms, indicating the Ironworks. “This was sort of their unofficial office. Your dad was one of the first ones Mr. Kale recruited. It was, I guess, forty years ago, maybe more. Mr. Kale had him kidnap Vince Giacomo’s wife, in River Forest.”
“The Mafia guy?”
“Yeah, who’d been moving into Chicago Heights, Doyle’s territory. Giacomo backed off — and paid a half million to get his wife returned. Was your dad’s first job and it went so smooth he was in like Flynn after that. He and the rest of the crew would come in during the day, hang out, get their assignments. Protection money here, bombing a competitor’s restaurant there, more kidnappings, drugs and money laundering. Sopranos stuff. They’d come back at night and hand off the money or report about what’d happened on the job.”
“That’s not killing people,” Ransom whispered firmly.
Even more quietly: “But he did that, too. I know it. Oh, hell, yeah, I know.”
“Impossible.”
The drippy rag was gone and Upshaw was sipping his coffee, hunched over and leaning close to Ransom. “Swear to God. Sure, they never talked about it out in the open. They weren’t stupid, none of the Round Table crew was. But one day, I found out. See, there was this pipe started leaking in the utility room. I went in to fix it and I was behind the water heater, working away. And your dad and Mr. Kale come in and they must’ve thought the room was empty because he says to your dad, ‘Good job with Krazinski. The DA suspects but my contact tells me they can’t make a case. The coroner’s gonna go with accidental. Doyle’s happy about that, real happy.’ And your father didn’t say anything. Course, he was always pretty quiet.”
So it wasn’t just me, Ransom reflected. Despite the horrific nature of the conversation, Ransom was oddly pleased.
Upshaw continued, glancing cautiously around. “Two days before, this star witness in a union embezzlement case, Leo Krazinski, died in a boating accident on Lake Michigan.”
“Jesus.”
“And then Mr. Kale goes, ‘There’s this numbers guy in Gary who’s been skimming. He told Ig to go fuck himself. He needs to be gone.’ And then they got all quiet and they must’ve heard me breathing, even though I was trying not to, ’cause next thing I know I look up and there they are staring down at me. I started to cry, I’ll admit it. I was blubbering like a kid. And your dad bends down and helps me up. And reaches into his pocket and takes out some Kleenex. And hands me one.”
“Yeah, he always carried that packet.” Ransom now realized they maybe weren’t to wipe his nose but were to take care of fingerprints.
“And he looks at Mr. Kale and he nods and I’m sure I’m dead. You know, this was it. Then Stan bends down and picks up the wrench I was using. And, what the fuck, he unscrews the L-joint I was working on. He looks at it and goes, “Your water’s too hard.” And he looks at me in this way, I can’t describe it, just looks and hands me back the pipe. That’s all he says. I got the message. Just that look, and I got the message.”