Chapter 7 - It's the Small Things That Can Kill You! - A Deadly Little Thing

                    Chapter 7 – A Deadly Little Thing

Clara bent over the table. Danny, Fenton and I bent forward looking for all the world like the formation of a conspiracist huddle.

“Frankie Calabrese is rumored to have killed over two dozen men belonging to rival gangs and an undetermined number of civilians who got in the way of Tony Accardo’s operations. He had help, of course. Frank usually did his dirty work accompanied by a driver and a backup sidekick who mainly served as a lookout. Police reports indicated that he used a snub nosed .38 special with a noise suppressor. That’s a standard issue cop gun. A pistol with a six-shot capacity. He killed in close quarters stalking his victims for blocks on foot long enough to make them nervous and prone to running or making fatal mistakes.” Clara had a flair for dramatic presentation, and we listened to her words while, in our imaginations, seeing each scene she described.

“He would spot his target on the street and tell his driver to do a slow roll up on the unsuspecting victim. The driver would let Frank out. Then, trenchcoat flapping in the Chicago breeze, Calabrese would slowly lumber after them. This is where he got the nickname “Frankenstein”.

“The driver would then flip around and drop the lookout a block or two up the street. He would walk toward Frank and the victim. His job was to look like a threat coming head on. Often the lookout would shout the victim’s name.”

“Would that attract a lot of attention on the street from passerby’s?” asked Fenton in a hushed monotone.

“I assumed it sometimes did. The purpose of yelling the victim’s name in anger was to see if he would produce a gun. If the victim did, the lookout would take cover. Generally, the victim would reverse direction, then see Frank closing on him. If the victim produced a gun, he usually would flash it as a warning. Frank was a cautious man but not afraid of being shot at. He would just keep slowly coming. Meanwhile, the lookout would wait for the victim to move off the street and into close quarters where Frank could easily corner and kill him.”

“Like…where?” I asked. My level of anxiety was ratcheted up just listing to Clara’ tale.

“He killed one that chose to hide in a closed newspaper stand. Another, he killed in a phone booth. He was so big he must have just put his gun to the victim’s head while he was standing outside with people walking by…unless, of course it happened at night. I couldn’t get enough details on that one for my college report.

“Sounds like he had ice water running through his veins.” Said Danny.

“You know it!” replied Clara. “Comes with the job.” She winked. It made me understand a bit more why she had chosen a criminal justice major this year. “But the places he dropped his victims most frequently were elevators and restrooms although he killed several victims in bars that were owned by Tony Accardo. Tony would order the staff to leave Frank and the victim alone in the place just before closing time.”

“He was a big guy. Why such a small gun? Why not a hand cannon, you know, like Eastwood used in Dirty Harry?” Fenton said in a rare display being swept up in someone else’s story.

“Noise. A large caliber pistol like a .44 makes a hell of a loud bang in close quarters, even with a silencer, they are none too silent. But the real reason Frank killed with a .38 was because it was a cop gun. A lot of Chicago Police Department cops used that same gun as a service weapon. It was part of his signature. He hated cops.” Clara continued.

“And they never caught this guy?” Danny asked in a skeptical tone.

“Oh, he has been in and out of jails and prison for armed robbery and car theft in his younger days. He was in for assault a few times, but Accardo’s lawyers were top notch, and his people knew how to clean up after a homicide and disappear a body like no others.

Plus, part of the job of the lookout was to take ‘the fall’ for the hit if necessary. By the time Frank was an enforcer and was doing Tony’s ‘hits’, he was too valuable to the organization to do a stretch in prison. Someone else would confess to the crime. That only happened a couple of times. Once, rumor has it, Frank’s own son-in-law, Vinnie Brusca, was a lookout in an early ‘hit’ and did ten years in Joliet instead of Frank for the murder of Kevin Dooley, a snitch. Tony’s lawyers forced a retrial and got Brusca out of prison early on a technicality. But Tony considered Frank too valuable to his team to do real time. Frank also knew all “the dirt” about Accardo from way back in their early years.” Clara paused.

“What was that noise?” she asked. Clara had supersensitive hearing. It bordered on creepy. But when she said she had heard something, she was always right about it.

Lisa appeared around the corner. “It’s Norbert. He asked if he could go to the restroom five minutes ago. I’ll check on him. I could tell by the way she walked out of the room and her other body language that Lisa had become disenchanted with Norbert’s antics.  She returned a moment later. “He’s not even in the men’s room.” Lisa muttered tensely at Danny.

“I’ve got this!” Danny said in a tired voice. He stretched and got up and went back to the men’s room.  Thirty seconds later he returned.

“Well?” Lisa inquired in a less-than-enthusiastic voice.

“He’s locked himself in the women’s restroom and won’t come out.” Danny sighed. “I need the key.”

Lisa looked blankly at him. “There isn’t one. Or rather, it was lost last year. I know how to get in. He has done this before. There is a way you can juggle the doorknob.”

Suddenly a horrible crash resounded from the women’s restroom. Norbert came zooming out. Lisa and Danny ran in two directions. Danny chased Norbert, Lisa checked the restroom.

“Looks like he slid the lid of the toilet tank of onto the floor. Strong little kid.” She cried as she emerged from the women’s bathroom. “It looks like it didn’t crack or break.” She looked at the group and her brow furrowed. Then she saw Norbert.

Norbert was holding a .25 caliber automatic on Fenton. The gun was small, a deadly little thing. He suddenly turned, aiming it in my direction. Every time one of us tried to say something to him or moved towards him he aimed the weapon at us.

Norbert had finally found a way to make every person at the diner pay attention to him and, for the moment, was in complete control of the adults in the room. I watched his face as a sense of glee and satisfaction swept across it. It terrified me.