Displaced

By Pamela Oxendale

Elton Mac McCoy, a rookie US Marshal, must protect a small child from the Chicago Mob in a decade when the Mafia ruled the streets, the police, and City Hall.

Six-year-old Cianna, the sole witness to her familys murders, carries the burden of testifying against the powerful and charismatic Mob boss, Ray Lombardo.

Lombardo, censured by an aging but shrewd godfather, finds himself under pressure to wipe out the incriminating witness or lose face with the administration he has set his sights on ruling.

A psychologists decision, a judges ruling, a corrupt police officer, and a sharp-shooting sniper work to stop Cianna from ever entering the courtroom.

But as Cianna walks the white marbled halls of the Chicago Federal Building, Mac senses a rush of victory. Has he failed to remember the pervasive influence of his underworld adversary?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Feb 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449711122

Pamela Oxendale

Pamela Oxendale, raised by the son of Italian immigrants who left the streets of Cicero for a better life in the service, grew up on air force bases around the globe. Pamela now lives in northern Arizona with her husband. Her greatest passion is revealing “the hope of glory.”

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Copyright © 2011 Pamela Oxendale

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Displaced was a Top Ten finalist in a 2010 new author contest.

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-1111-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-1110-8 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-1112-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010943465

Printed in the United States of America

WestBow Press rev. date: 02/15/2011

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY–TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY–SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY–NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY–SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE

Dedicated to Cindy Millar, who prompted me to write this story, and to my husband, Tom, who prodded me to finish.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank the following individuals for their assistance in my research for this book: Dave Turk, US Marshal Historian, Chicago, Illinois; Chuck Kupferer, Chief Inspection Deputy Marshal, Nashville, Tennessee, retired; Dr. Don Curran, D.O., Board Certified in psychology, geriatrics, and family medicine, Cottonwood, Arizona; Jim Ledbetter, Atty., Cottonwood, Arizona; Uncle Roland (Orsucci) Orr, Westchester, Illinois, and those who provided information about the Connected Ones, but who wish to remain anonymous. Also, to all my family and friends who prayed without ceasing for this project, I can’t thank you enough. I know you’re celebrating with me.

ONE

CHICAGO 1960

Mac McCoy slammed into the weathered apartment door, shredding the veneer and wrenching the hinges. The gagging, gasping sound on the other side grew more frantic. He lowered his left shoulder and rammed the door again. Like a nose guard tackling the quarterback, he brought the door down in one loud crash and hurdled through the opening.

Ah! What is that putrid smell? The noxious odor knocked him back a step. He turned his head toward the opening of the door and sucked in a quick breath. At the same time, he realized the strangling sound had stopped.

The drapes, drawn against the late morning sun, hid the victim in a shadowed darkness. With his legs spread in an offensive stance, he squinted into the dim interior.

His gaze swept the room quickly until he identified a figure stretched out on a sofa below the living room window. In three long strides, Mac reached the still form.

Man, that stench. I’m going to gag! Holding his breath, he felt for a pulse. A weak rhythm answered the pressure of his hand, but the victim had stopped breathing.

He dragged the thin, unconscious man up into his arms, pressing his chest against the fellow’s back. Squeezing air from the diaphragm with three quick contractions, he forced air into the windpipes. Mac felt or heard a pop. He couldn’t be sure. A loud gasp followed, then a groan. Still, the guy remained limp and unconscious.

Mac lowered him to the sofa, bending over to press two fingers against his jugular. A steady pulse throbbed against the compression.

All at once, he exhaled hard and gulped a fresh breath, wrinkling his nose at the contaminated air, before moving his hand down the man’s chest to the sternum. Positioning the tips of his fingers at the inside edge, he pressed lightly against the pectoral muscle. The up and down rhythm of the lungs seemed normal. Why doesn’t he come to? He needed a better look.

Mac reached over to the lamp beside the sofa and fumbled around for the switch. The sudden click cast a bright light over the scene, highlighting the reason for the man’s unconscious state and the foul-smelling stench. Vomit covered the inside arm of the beige sofa and spread across the cushion, dribbling down the leg to the green shag carpet below. From the looks of the carpet, this was not the first time.

One side of the guy’s face lay in the regurgitated food, and bits of it clung to his long, tangled hair. He stared at the fugitive he had come to arrest. The face, thin and bony, had a frail, pasty appearance. A dingy, white-stained T-shirt hung from scrawny shoulders, and loose, faded jeans ended at bare, black-soled feet.

Mac continued to stare for a minute longer with one hand at his waist and his left hand pinching his nostrils. He couldn’t believe the state to which some people let themselves slide. Worse yet, how could anyone stand to lay in that filthy puke? The smell alone threatened to drive him from the room. He always had difficulty with human muck. It made his knees want to buckle.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted something lying at the edge of the table. Leaning over for a better look, he discovered the answer to his question. Obscured under the rolled arm of the sofa lay a wide rubber strap and a small, empty syringe. That explained the stupor and the fellow’s inability to roll over. The truant who failed to appear for arraignment was an acidhead. A few more seconds and he would have choked to death on his own vomit.

Geez. This was not what he had signed up for. Anyone could take this guy into custody. It didn’t require a trained U.S. Marshal. Walt wanted him to get some field experience; on the job training, he called it. Fine, chalk this up to experience and get me out of here.

Mac found a phone on the kitchen wall and called into the office. I located the court dodger. He’s subdued and ready to transport.

You didn’t call for backup?

Walt, the guy was choking to death, vomiting all over the place. I couldn’t wait.

Ah, huh.

Besides, he’s passed out, shot full of drugs.

Well, can you bring him in by yourself?

Yes sir. But I was wondering. Do you think my next duty could involve some real action, you know, minus the retching?

His senior partner chuckled. Bring in the drug head, and I’ll take your suggestion under consideration. But remember, Mac, we start with small experiences and build on them. That’s how we develop a first-class deputy.

TWO

The harsh, unexpected ring of the kitchen phone interrupted Mac’s evening solitude as he performed the mundane but satisfying task of cleaning his gun. Normally he would let the phone ring until his wife picked it up, but at 7:45, he knew Ginny was seated on their daughter’s bed turning pages in a storybook. Quickly setting his gun barrel down on the cleaning cloth at the kitchen table, he reached for the receiver on the adjacent wall.

McCoy here. The mild annoyance he felt seeped into his voice.

I hope I’m not disturbing you, Deputy.

No! No sir, Captain. I wasn’t expecting a call, that’s all.

In our business, son, calls can come at any time.

Yes sir. Shut up, McCoy. Don’t make it worse.

All right then, I’ll get to the point. Deputy McCoy, are you prepared to take custody of a mob witness tonight?

Yes sir. Mac felt a tingling in his chest that spread to his entire body. A twenty-six-year-old General Schedule-5 Deputy never got assigned to witness protection. There were ten experienced GS-9 deputies and six GS-11s in the Northern Illinois District for Captain Brooks to consider before Mac. But the captain wouldn’t call this late in the evening if he planned to give the assignment to anyone else.

Mac licked his bottom lip. Frustrated as he had been with the acidhead job from three weeks earlier, he grudgingly accepted the wisdom of Walt’s admonition. So what did the captain’s request mean? Witness protection was no small assignment. In fact, every deputy in the district would clamor for this job once it became known.

The U.S. district attorney hasn’t called yet or I would give you the schedule. This is simply a heads-up. I don’t expect the request for our services until after midnight. The captain paused.

Mac held his breath.

The defendant is Joe Bellalona, Ray Lombardo’s chauffeur. He made a confession to the FBI today, fingered nine members of the Outfit’s administration, including his boss, Lombardo.

Stunned, Mac groped for a response. The Godfather, Sam Accardo, and the mob boss of Chicago, Ray Lombardo, ran the Chicago mafia with a ruthless hand that defied the law. They decided who lived and who died. Mac rested his elbows on the table, staring at his disassembled .38.

The crimes of these men were well documented but because of weak federal laws, they were impossible to prosecute. In the fifties, Hollywood nicknamed gangsters the untouchables, and they weren’t far from the truth.

The FBI had tried turning to eyewitnesses, but fear of reprisals made people afraid to testify. Omerta, the mafia code of silence, had become every prosecutor’s nightmare.

For twenty years, the mafia had infiltrated Cook County like an invasive weed, and no one could stop them—no one until now. The significance of Joe Bellalona’s betrayal of the mob resonated in Mac’s mind. Identifying the top men in Chicago’s organized crime syndicate made Bellalona the most important witness the marshals would protect in a decade. The magnitude of this confession was staggering. Finally, the FBI had the ammunition it needed to fight back. But it also meant Bellalona’s guardians sat in the crosshairs of the Chicago mafia.

A sudden chill raised goose bumps down the length of Mac’s arms. Does Walt know?

I haven’t got a hold of him yet. He’s still on vacation, but you know he’s due back tonight. The captain dropped his professional tone.

Listen, Mac. I wouldn’t assign this witness to you without Walt Olson right there beside you. He’s the best there is, and if he says you’re ready, I’m not going to argue. We’ll have Eddie and Chuck involved in this case too, but you and Walt will be the primaries. Stick close to Walt. You’ll learn a lot on this assignment.

Yes sir, I know that. The captain’s mild admonition grated more than he wanted to admit. Endless training exercises, a fitness routine that kept his body lean and hard, and regular trips to the firing range where he rarely threw a round made him antsy for a real assignment. Like a colt at the starting gate, his nerves quivered in anticipation. He wanted a chance to join the race, to prove his selection had not been a mistake. He was the youngest rookie the marshals had ever chosen and the least experienced. Most deputies came from successful careers in law enforcement or the armed services looking for a fresh start in a job that needed the skills they had already perfected. They were the guys who snagged the glory assignments while Mac sat behind a desk dissecting bank sheets.

Nervous energy drove him to his feet. He paced the apartment kitchen while the captain finished his instructions.

Bellalona is attending a show at the Civic Opera House tonight with his family, but we aren’t invited. Agent Reynolds’ man at the bureau says they’ll cover him until the U.S. attorney requests our help. I assume that means the DA hasn’t received orders from the judge yet. The agent implied it might be around midnight when the call comes in. It sounds irregular, but the ball is in their court, so we have to play along.

Yes sir.

I know that means no sleep tonight, but think about it this way. Captain Brooks tried to humor him. You can slip the witness and his family out of the neighborhood while everyone’s asleep, put them all to bed, and catch a cat nap yourself before anyone knows what has happened.

Too keyed-up to appreciate the captain’s wit, Mac gave his standard, Yes sir.

All right, Mac. If there are no more questions, expect my call in about four hours.

Yes sir.

Assembling his gun in record time, he contemplated the situation.

The FBI provided protection for a witness before the courts turned him over to the U.S. Marshals. If the guy was attending a function in a crowded public arena after making a confession, that meant he had bartered with the agency for the privilege. But what was the guy after in an opera house? It seemed like a risky move.

Invite or not, Mac decided to check out the witness. It wouldn’t break any rules, and the guy should be easy to spot with agents surrounding him. It would also give him the opportunity to observe how the FBI protected an enemy of the mob in a swarm of people. So far, no one he worked with had attempted that task.

He pulled his only dress suit from the closet, laid it on the bed, and then grabbed one of his two white dress shirts. It was 8:00. He could easily make it to the opera house and back before a midnight call.

Where are you going this time of night? Ginny found him in the bedroom securing the top button of his shirt and glanced at the jacket on the bed.

Katie thought the call might be Grandma, but it was the marshal’s office, wasn’t it?

Mac nodded and pushed the knot of his silver and navy striped tie into the triangle between the collar points while he relayed the crux of the conversation with the captain in his usual matter-of-fact tone.

I’ve got a witness to protect. He met Ginny’s eyes and watched in amusement as they rounded into saucers.

Oh, Mac! She closed the gap between them, stretching her slender arms around his neck, and stood on tiptoes to kiss him.

He lowered his head to meet her lips.

Ginny pulled back and tipped up her face. I’m so proud of you. You’ll be great.

The ease with which her spontaneous approval surfaced made him pause. Life could bring tidal waves or undertows, it didn’t matter. He experienced the highs and lows through Ginny’s sincere, unrehearsed emotions. His own he had learned to keep penned-up and carefully managed.

The man and his family are at the opera house.

The opera house in June? It must be a special engagement. The opera season ended in April. Wait, I’ll check the paper, she said and darted for the doorway.

Ginny, it doesn’t matter. Mac stopped her flight. I’m going to watch the witness, not the performer.

Okay … I just wanted to help.

I know. It’s all right. Don’t worry about it. And don’t expect me back before twelve. If a call comes before then, tell the captain I had to run a quick errand and take a message. Can you do that for me?

She nodded.

Thanks. Mac grabbed his jacket. Don’t wait up. Just leave me a note.

His lips brushed Ginny’s as he headed for the door.

I love you, trailed him out of the room. If anything ever happened to him, Ginny always wanted those words to be the last ones he heard her say.

THREE

The Chicago Civic Opera House had occupied prime real estate on Wacker Drive at the western edge of the Chicago River for over thirty years, and her soot-blackened limestone exterior looked every bit her age. Modern high-rises had sprung up around the block-long Civic Opera Building as the city sought to redevelop its downtown area, but with her ornate Victorian architecture, she refused to fade into the background. Talk of tearing down the old girl met with fierce opposition, forcing the city government to designate the opera house a historical monument.

In the fading light of dusk, Mac looked down the row of sculpted cement columns that ran the length of the building’s sidewalk, hoping to spot a parking place along the street. He had sped across town in order to make the 8:30 show and had little time to spare if he wanted to locate his guy before the lights went down. A narrow space opened up along the curb less than a block away.

A framed poster of the performer hanging beside the ticket window showed a little dark-haired girl standing alone on a stage. Great! Watching someone else’s kid perform ranked right up there with cartoon movies and carousel rides. The only person who could convince him that a little songster might entertain him was Katie-girl. His daughter generated enthusiasm wherever she went.

Mac stepped up to the window and flashed his badge, quickly slipping it back into his inside coat pocket to keep the handgun in his waistband concealed. People grew nervous at the sight of a gun.

Pushing through the double glass entry doors, he reminded himself that he had come to observe a witness. He might not like the evening’s entertainment, but a child performer would draw a smaller crowd, making it easier to find a seat and spot his witness.

The lobby, like the exterior, had faded from its former grandeur, but he could tell by the pink marble under his feet and the grand, stone-pillared staircase in front of him that this place had once been a beauty. His eyes roamed the length of the foyer, observing small groups of elegantly dressed people.

Sequined gowns and black satin cummerbunds sparkled under the crystal chandeliers. A few eyes flicked in his direction and then looked away, while their owners continued their conversations. In a large gold gilt-framed mirror on the wall, he caught a glimpse of himself in his cheap black suit. A corner of his mouth quirked into a half smile. Compared to the beautiful opera patrons, he looked little better than a hobo.

To say he didn’t fit in would be an understatement. Tuxedos had never been his style. But did that really matter? Like he told Ginny, he had come to observe a witness, not to impress anyone.