Embers & Ash by T.M. Goeglein Page A

that his success didn’t square with the cut he’s required to pay the Outfit . . . the operating tax. Usually, a formal sit-down is convened with other division heads present. I expedited the process and ordered the kid to take us to his stash house.”
    â€œâ€˜Expedited the process’?” Doug said. “Fancy words for doing Tyler, that is, Mister Handsome, a favor. As counselor, aren’t you supposed to treat everyone the same?”
    â€œYeah,” I said, feeling a blush creep up my neck. “But we’re, you know, friends.”
    â€œReally?” he said, lifting an eyebrow. “What kind of friends?”
    â€œBusiness friends,” I said. “My point is the stash house. It’s an Outfit tradition. Every member has one or two hidden around Chicago. All that dirty cash, bales of pot, bags of coke, cases of guns . . . it has to be stored somewhere. All you have to do is look at self-storage places or apartment buildings lining Lake Shore Drive, and wonder what’s hidden inside. Anyway, one blip of cold fury and Baby-Face took us to his stash house.”
    â€œLots of bling?” Doug said.
    â€œA small fortune. Tyler counted out the operating tax in gems.” I looked at the key again. “I can only imagine what Nunzio squirreled away, wherever this place was.”
    Doug took it from my hand and stared at the Pharoah head. “This is no Troika of Outfit Influence, Sara Jane. In fact, it’s no mystery at all. It’s King Ramses II.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œHow do you think?” He smirked. “
The Ten Commandments,
1956, directed by Cecil B. DeMille, with Charlton Heston as an unlikely Moses, and Yul Brynner as a perfect Ramses II. See the striped headdress and steely gaze? That’s him, I’m sure of it. In fact, I used to see him and his twin every Wednesday.”
    â€œYou lost me.”
    He shook his head ruefully. “God . . . I used to eat a
lot.
I actually planned my bingeing by the day of the week. Wednesday was two-for-one pork-chop sandwiches with unlimited fries at Fat Sammy’s on Clark Street. Statues of Ramses II and his twin stand guard outside the place next door, a big old warehouse called Reebie Storage. It has all these Egyptian symbols and one of those plaques saying it was built in 1922.”
    â€œThen it’s possible Reebie could’ve been a stash house for Outfit guys,” I said.
    â€œThere’s one way to find out,” he said, pulling the notebook from the backpack and opening to the first chapter, “
Nostro
—Us.” It listed details, arcane and modern, about the Outfit’s history, how it’s organized, its known front businesses. Flipping pages, Doug said, “Let’s see . . . Warehouses . . . Houses of Prostitution . . . Here it is, Stash Houses, Outfit-Approved, 1919–1932. I wonder why it ends in ’32?”
    â€œJust a guess, but that’s when Capone went to jail,” I said. “The Outfit was in disarray, everyone grabbing for power. No one trusted anyone.”
    â€œThose guys would’ve been fools to let each other know where their stashes were hidden,” Doug said, trailing a finger down a page. “Here it is. Reebie Storage, 2325 North Clark Street.” He looked up with a grin. “Right next to Fat Sammy’s.”
    â€œYou know your junk food.”
    â€œKnew it, past tense.”
    â€œSo if Reebie was Nunzio’s stash house . . . could his stuff still be there?”
    â€œThere’s a way to find out that, too,” Doug said, handing me the key.
    I closed my fist around it, feeling cold metal against my skin. “It’s a mystery for another day. We’ve got enough on our plate as it is.” He nodded, we slipped into our boots, put on our helmets, and I pushed the tiny
C
on the Capone Door. It opened with a