Chapter 11

West Ogden Street… Beirut West… Billy hated the ride from Wacker to anywhere in Cicero. Aged tenements stood guard; sentinels protecting the pervasive evil being committed everywhere contained within, or such was his opinion, right or wrong. He got the willies just paying the cab driver and stepping out of the back seat. Two worlds merged at the front door of the building standing at 1237 West Ogden. Billy hadn’t been here for nearly five years but was he blind he could have found Tan Tony’s buzzer button, such was the strength of the memories. Even now, as he contemplated the buzz-in, he wished he could merely walk back down the steps and forget the whole thing. Impulsively, Billy pressed the button.

“Yea?” 

Still a Wise Guy… “It’s me, Tony, buzz me up.”

The tone preceded an audible click and Billy stepped inside the foyer. Only a flight of stairs served as a buffer, his last reserve against backing out. Three stairs at a time, he vaulted past the landing, hardly even noticing the neatly wrapped green Hefty bags of garbage. Let’s get this over with.

The front door of apartment 2-A fell open as Billy rapped his knuckles upon it.

“Entrez vouz… shut the door behind you,” chimed a voice from within, a voice Billy could have picked out of a crowd. The apartment showed no changes that Billy could discern, from his one and only previous visit. Once he’d navigated through the stacks of papers in the short foyer into the ‘living room’, Billy greeted “Fat Tony” Tantero as he tried to hoist his 350-pound frame from the Barcalounger.

“It’s okay… don’t get up.” If Billy could keep him in his chair, there would be no requisite goomba hug. Billy extended his hand; whereupon it was snatched into Fat Tony’s vice and Billy felt himself being crushed downward into the torso of world’s fattest Italian. Oh, shit…  The aroma of freshly applied Aqua-Velva accosted his nostrils. Sweet Jesus, he got prettied-up for me.

Regaining control, and what little remained of his dignity, Billy smiled weakly and motioned toward the couch. “May I sit down, Tony?”

Tony shrugged and held his hand out. “Sit… stand… mi casa es su casa, paisan, why do you feel the need to ask me such a question?” Marlon Brando could not have delivered the line with any more aplomb in his best portrayal of Don Corleone.

“Jeez, Tony, you really need to speak to your cleaning lady… I don’t think you’re getting your money’s worth.”

The earth shook along with Tony as his laugh permeated every cranny within three blocks. “Oh, you’re still the saputo, I see…” Tony pointed his finger at Billy, “but, hey, as long as she gives good head, who’s the poorer, am I right, Billy?”

Please, God, just kill me now. “Yea… of course. Hey, look, Tony, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m kinda in a hurry… a friend of mine may be in some pretty deep shit and I need to get some information that I thought maybe you could help me with, you being an expert in… well, you smell the coffee, don’t you? Do I have to spell it out?”

The words sucked all the air out of the room. Gravity intensified and Tony’s body sunk deeper into the chair. Through a stare that could have stopped a battery-operated clock, Tony nodded. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“Tony, I need to find out about PFEE… do you know what it is?”

Adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses, Tony supported his chin with his right hand. “I know enough to know that it’s not something to fool with. It’s bad news, Billy, stay away from it.”

“Oh, you don’t need to convince me of that, Tony, I just need to know where someone might obtain some.”

Now, the glasses came off. “Billy, I don’t know…” Tony rubbed his face with both hands in an effort to dispel the thoughts currently coursing through his mind.

“No… no, wait, Tony,” Billy held out both hands, waving them and making a T in the air. Time out!  “I don’t want to actually get any, I just want to know where someone would go to get some.”

The two spent the better part of the next hour reminiscing about old times, with no further mention of the subject at hand. They discussed past callers, the present breed of numbnuts that carried talk radio right into its present position in the toilet, how they longed for the old days, blah blah blah, etc., etc., etc.…

Then, as quickly as he began, Tony stopped talking. Reaching into the side pocket of the Barcalounger, Tony produced a pen and scrap of paper; writing a name and number onto it, he handed it to Billy. “Billy, if she don’t know where to find it, she’ll send you to someone who does. But, I warn you, don’t go empty-handed, make sure you got some cash wit' you, the more the better… she likes gifts. And you didn’t get it from me, my friend. If you mention my name to anyone in this regard, well, there’ll be… consequences.” 

A very forceful hand grabbed Billy’s forearm. “Do we understand each other?”

She?