As Phil walked through the terminal at O'Hare Airport, Patty's beautiful portrait smiled up at him from stacks of newspapers everywhere. He thought back to the night before when Patty had been completely in love with her experiences of the day. Everything had been exactly right in her world and Phil could see that perfection reflected in the incredible picture on the cover of the Chicago Tribune. Phil paused just long enough to buy a copy of the paper to read on the drive in to the Loop. Phil, Eddie and his staff spent about forty-five minutes putting the final touches on the plan for the announcement before stepping out to face the biggest group of cameras Phil had ever seen. It was instantly clear that Phil was not in Shreveport anymore.
"The heat is on in Chicago," the task force chief announced to a sea of flashing still cameras and blinding television lights.
"Tomaso Musso will face federal racketeering and conspiracy charges in Chicago. He was arrested by task force agents at a hideout in Wisconsin and is currently in lockup at a federal facility in Terre Haute, Indiana," Eddie Aimes told the press conference.
"Is he facing charges in Louisiana?" a voice shouted from the crowd.
"We anticipate that he will be indicted there. Just before coming out here, I spoke to Governor John McClellan and to the district attorney in Shreveport. They seem willing to let us have first crack at him here," Special Agent Ames replied.
"But won't he get the death penalty in Louisiana?" the voice retorted.
"I'm sure that's on Mr. Musso's mind. Maybe that knowledge will help his memory concerning a great many crimes in Illinois.
"Why is he being held in Indiana?" another reporter called out.
"For his own safety?" the task force boss responded.
Inwardly, Eddie was pleased to hear the plan working out just as they had hoped.
"Does that mean Musso is cooperating with your investigation?" a third voice asked.
"I can't comment," Eddie answered, then paused before making a planned addition.
"We promised Mr. Musso protection and we can best provide that in the federal prison in Terre Haute.
"Now before we go on, I need to give you some information that's time sensitive. Mr. Musso will make his initial appearance before a federal magistrate at one-thirty Eastern Time this afternoon in the US District Court in Terre Haute, located at 921 Ohio Street. I suspect some of you may need to phone that in to your editors," Eddie Aimes announced as about a third of the press conference participants began scrambling for telephones.
"It was a slam dunk," Phil said, congratulating Eddie as the group entered his office.
Phil had stood one step back and one step to the right of the task force chief for the whole news conference. When asked what his role in the capture of Musso had been, Phil had answered briefly.
"None. I was in another state," Phil had said.
"Was the information about Tommy the Moose developed by people you have in custody in Louisiana?" another reporter had asked.
"No. Mr. Musso was located and arrested solely by the Chicago task force," Phil had answered.
At that point, Eddie had cut things off and promised a written statement after Musso had faced the magistrate.
Sam Giancana's lawyer, Kevin O'Mally, had shown up in Terre Haute without being called, but Musso had refused to meet with him. At the hearing, Musso accepted a court appointed attorney, who indicated that his client would seek private counsel in time for his next appearance.
"Does your client have any objection to being held in the federal prison here?" the magistrate had asked.
"Not at this time, your honor," had been the lawyer's response.
"Do you think Musso's going to play ball?" Phil asked Eddie after the hearing.
"Not a chance," Eddie answered, "but he knows we've burned him and made it appear to Sam like he is willing to cut a deal with us. My guys guess that he's trying to figure out a way to stay alive. Probably doesn't have any long-term goals, yet."
Phil phoned Danny.
"The Moose has done a lot of dirty work for other families, and none of the other bosses like Giancana with the possible exception of Morello. My guess is he may reach out to the boys in New York, maybe make some kind of deal up there that would keep him alive in the can.
"Terre Haute is a maximum security facility. Musso probably likes his chances of being safe there for the time being. He's probably also relieved not to be in Shreveport with the others," Danny answered.
"Nothing's simple about these guys, is it?" Phil asked, bringing laughter from his friend with the New Orleans task force.
"So they didn't need you up there at all?" Patty suggested when she and Phil finally got to talk by phone around five-thirty Chicago time.
Phil laughed.
"Not really," he admitted.
"But with all the media attention you and I've been getting in Chicago this week, Eddie felt it added to his credibility to have me standing beside him showing my approval of what his guys had done. I suppose my presence said to the people of Chicago that we in the justice department trust Eddie to handle this matter up here and you should, too.
"What Eddie really didn't need was us flying another Chicago mobster off to Shreveport," Phil explained.
"I'm buying up as many copies of the Trib as I can," Phil teased, "enough for all your aunts and uncles. The picture is fabulous. Have you seen it?"
"Yes," Patty answered with a smile.
"Angie arranged for an airman to drive to a newsstand in San Francisco and buy several copies of the paper. But I'm not going to be satisfied until I hear you say my picture is as nice as the one Nita had in the New York Daily News," Patty teased back.
"Well, I still haven't seen that one, yet. But it's hard for me to imagine that it tops your picture this morning. It is absolutely as beautiful as you are and somehow it seems to reveal how wonderful you are inside, as well," Phil said in complete sincerity.
"You're going to make me cry," Patty responded.
In less than an hour, Phil went along with a large number of the members of the Chicago task force for a celebration at Morton's on North State Street. He rode over in one of the task force cars, but the marshal's service would be sending a car to pick him up. Maria had arranged for an Air Force flight to pick him up at Naval Air Station Glenview. The celebration at the steakhouse had just passed the two-and-a-half hour point when Deputy Marshal Ben Rheinhardt tapped Phil on the shoulder to tell him the car was waiting out front.
"Congratulations to all of you, again," Phil announced as he stood to excuse himself, "but I've got to catch a plane.
"Excellent work," Phil concluded as Mo led him to the door of the private dining room, through the restaurant and to the front door.
Mo went through the door first and checked the street.
"Clear," he called back to Ben.
In seconds, Phil was in the rear seat on the passenger side of the car. Ben stood guard as Mo took his seat on the driver's side next to Phil in the back. Ben took the shotgun seat and the Chicago deputy marshal driving pulled into traffic. He rolled carefully past two limousines that were parked in front of where he had stopped the car, then pressed hard on the accelerator.
Thud! A man who had been struck by the marshal's car crashed into the windshield. Three people inside the car stared at the man who had hit the windshield, but something told Mo to keep his eyes on Phil. In another second, a man stood at Phil's window, pointing a pistol directly at him. Mo had unholstered his weapon as soon as the crash occurred. Phil's eyes were still fixed on the man on the hood of the car when Mo fired twice, the trooper's shots going directly in front of Phil's nose, passing through the rolled up window and downing the gunman. Phil was blinded by the muzzle flash and the explosions from the rounds were ringing in his ears.
"Back up!" Mo screamed.
And as soon as the man who had been struck by the car rolled off the hood, Mo issued his second command.
"Go! Go! Go!" he shouted and the driver hit the gas.
"Get us to a hospital," Mo said, sternly, but with less volume and intensity than before.
"Is he hit?" Ben said, turning his body and reaching into the backseat to check on Phil.
"I don't think so," Mo answered.
"I fired two shots and I only heard two shots."
"That's all I heard," Ben agreed.
Phil began to feel his face, neck and chest. His ears continued to ring and his vision was seriously impaired.
"I don't think I've been shot, but I'm having trouble seeing and my ears are ringing," Phil told his companions in a much too loud voice.
"Probably from the gunshots," Ben speculated aloud.
"Better get to the hospital, anyway," he added.
"No," Phil heard himself say.
"Lets head for the naval air station. I'm not bleeding. If need be, a doctor can check me out there."
"Okay," Ben agreed.
"This car's a mess. I can barely see out," the deputy who was driving said, speaking for the first time.
"If you absolutely have to, we can stop and get another one, but I'd rather not," Ben responded.
"Absolutely not," Mo said, looking through the windshield.
"We don't know if there are more shooters after us. I'm not about to lose another friend. I can see through the windshield, which means you can, too," he told the deputy driving the car.
"Step on it," Mo commanded.
They were on the base in less than thirty minutes, where they were escorted to flight ops. A doctor was waiting.
"You've got some powder burns," he told Phil.
"Are your ears still ringing? How's your vision?" the flight surgeon asked Phil.
"The ringing's mostly gone, but everything sounds muffled. Vision's better, but things still look a bit fuzzy," Phil answered.
"Can he fly?" a Navy commander asked the doctor.
"Let me do a couple of tests to make sure," the doctor answered.
"He's okay," the flight surgeon said about three minutes later.
"Good. I need to get that plane in the air," the commander said.
"Just a minute," Phil said as he began moving toward a desk a few feet away.
He pulled a notebook from his coat pocket, turned several pages to an entry then put the telephone number on the desk where the petty officer seated in front of the phone could see it.
"Hello," Phil said to the noncom.
"Could you get that number for me?" Phil asked, then paused for a smile.
"Certainly, sir," the man answered.
"Sorry, Commander. I'll make this as quick as I can," Phil said, turning to face the officer.
"It's ringing," the petty officer told Phil as he handed over the receiver to the phone.
"Hello," Patty answered after the second ring, a tone of panic in her voice.
"Hi," Phil said.
"Are you all right?" Patty asked.
"Danny called and said there had been a shooting, but he didn't think you were hurt."
"I'm fine, but I've got to get on the plane. I'll tell you everything I know in about three hours, okay?" Phil asked.
"I love you," Patty said.
"I'll be waiting."
"I love you," Phil responded.
"Sorry I have to rush off."
"Oh," Patty remembered.
"Danny said Sylvan called. What do you want Danny to tell him?" she asked.
"Tell Danny, I'm calling Sylvan right now. Gotta run," Phil said, handing the phone back to the petty officer.
"Just one more call and I'll be on the plane," Phil explained to the commander as he opened his notebook to Sylvan's number at the paper, then showed it to the noncom at the desk.
"Chicago?" the petty officer asked.
"That's right," Phil answered.
"Sylvan Pratt," Phil heard through the phone after only one ring.
"Sylvan, it's Phil Adley," Phil said.
"I'm not hurt. I haven't been wounded and I will call you back in a couple of hours. But right now, I've got to get on a plane that's being held for me," Phil told the reporter.
"What happened? Where are you? Who shot at you?" Sylvan asked.
"I promise I will call you as soon as I get back on the ground. But I wanted you to know that I am all right. Call Danny and I'm sure he will answer whatever he can for you. I've got to go," Phil concluded.
Phil passed the phone back to the petty officer, then walked toward the officer and shook his hand.
"Sorry to hold you up," he said.
"Doctor, thank you very much," Phil said turning to the flight surgeon and shaking his hand as well.
"What about the shooting investigation?" the driver asked.
"You're right," Ben agreed, then walked quickly to the petty officer at the desk.
"Do you have a big envelope?" the deputy marshal asked.
"Mo, write the date and time on this envelope and sign your name," Ben told the trooper as he took the envelope from the petty officer and began walking toward Mo.
"When you've done that, drop your gun in the envelope, seal it and give it to Deputy Marshal Roddy. They've got to have the gun for the investigation," Ben explained, looking directly into the trooper's eyes.
Witnessing the scene, Phil wondered quickly whether Mo would give up his gun and decided to speak.
"As soon as we get in the air, I'll get a patch through to Nita and have someone bring you another gun when we land at Castle," Phil said.
Mo took the envelope and began writing on it as directed. Then he removed the revolver from his holster, dropped it in the envelope, sealed it and handed it to the deputy marshal from Chicago. Ten minutes later the big Air Force jet roared down the runway and climbed into the dark Illinois sky. In three more hours, Phil watched an ecstatically exited Patty rush past him at the foot of the steps to the airplane and smother a disbelieving Maurice Melancon with furious kisses.
"Thank you," she gushed.
"Thank you with all my heart."
Only then did Patty grab Phil and kiss him furiously.
"What happened to your face," she said, pulling back to look more carefully at Phil's injuries.
"Burns from Mo's gun," Phil explained.
"He fired directly in front of my nose."
Just as Angie leaned in to kiss Phil, he noticed a uniformed California Highway Patrolman standing in front of Mo.
"Are you Trooper Melancon?" the man asked.
"I've got something for you, but I'm going to need you to sign some papers," he said.
For perhaps the two-hundreth time, Phil stood in amazement at what Nita could do.
In less than two minutes, Mo had a new pistol in his holster, identical to the one he had handed over in Illinois three hours earlier. Ten minutes later, the whole group sat around the conference table in the Officers Club listening as Phil talked to Danny on the phone.
"Shooter's dead. Two in the center of the chest less than two inches apart. He carried an army surplus .45 with the serial number filed down," Phil said after he had ended the call.
"The guy we hit with the car?" Ben asked.
"Of course he was dead. We all knew that when he hit the windshield. He was an alcoholic they apparently picked up off the street. No ID. Just a fresh twenty-dollar bill in his pocket," Phil answered.
"I can't believe I didn't see any of these people when I checked the street," Mo said.
"The cab driver told investigators that two men emerged from a door alcove just in front of him. They appeared to be supporting a third man whom they shoved directly into the patch of our car, so you wouldn't have seen them. They were hidden from your view at the restaurant door. As for the shooter, no witness could be found who saw him, but the guys who did the scene investigation surmised he could have been in the same alcove. They're going to try to ID him with fingerprints," Phil explained.
Phil watched Mo's face for a few seconds, then rose and escorted his friend out into the hall next to the door.
"It's okay. You did the right thing. You absolutely saved my life," Phil said, noting that Mo stood close to him and was on the verge of tears.
"I never even shot at anybody, at least not until tonight. Now I have killed a man," Mo said.
Phil had seen this reaction at several officer involved shootings when he worked as a reporter and he knew there was no easy way to deal with this.
"I just know I'm going to see that guy's face every day and night for the rest of my life. It's so vivid. It's burned into my mind. If I could draw, I would be able to sketch it from memory. And his eyes, his eyes were like death, like shark's eyes," the trooper said.
"Maybe we need to get you back to Louisiana, give you some days off," Phil suggested.
"Let's see about that tomorrow, see how I do tonight. I need a priest. I need to confess," Mo told his friend.
"You want to wait out here while I go in and find one?" Phil asked.
Mo smiled.
"Nah, I'm going to step over to the bar and have a shot of whiskey, maybe two," he answered.
"Fine," Phil responded, slapping his friend's upper arm gently.
"Bring me a beer when you come back to the conference room," Phil requested.
By the time Phil had made the phone call to find the priest and explained why he was needed, Mo was back in the conference room.
"That's a good idea," Angie said when Mo walked in with Phil's beer.
"Anybody else?" she asked as she headed for the door.
"Sweet tea," Patty answered and everyone in the room laughed, including Mo.
"Sorry I'm so late calling back," Phil said into the phone in a call to Sylvan a minute or so later.
"I had to talk to Danny first," he explained.
"None of us really knew much about what had happened. Danny said he had already filled you in about the investigation from our end. I would urge you to go with what he told you rather than to rely on me to pass it on to you. He's a step closer to the actual process than me and he also is a little more detached, okay?" Phil asked.
"Sure," Sylvan agreed.
"Before we start, just let me say how very glad I am that you weren't seriously hurt and in a minute I'll ask you on the record to describe your injuries. But you are okay, right?"
"Yeah," Phil confirmed.
"And also off the record, how's Mo?" Sylvan asked.
"It's not easy. You've worked cops. I'm sure you've seen this before," Phil said.
"Absolutely," Sylvan agreed.
"And you're holding up okay?" he asked.
"Hasn't sunk in yet," Phil answered.
"Sorry to have to rush this, but they're holding the final for me, so I need to get on the record," Sylvan explained.
"Go ahead," Phil said.
"Do you know who this man was or why he wanted to kill you?" the reporter asked.
"No. I never saw him. Thank God Trooper Melancon did or I would be dead," Phil answered.
"Describe your injuries, please?" Sylvan asked.
"I have some powder burns on my face. At first my hearing and vision were affected by the blast, but they're pretty much back to normal now. Thankfully, I was not seriously hurt," Phil said.
"What went through your mind during the attack?" was Sylvan's next question.
"Nothing. There wasn't time. A second or two after we pulled away from the curb, this poor man flew into our windshield. That had just begun to register when the gun went off in front of my face. The car came to a sudden halt. Trooper Melancon screamed orders. The tires squealed and the car backed up. Then we took off at high speed. There was just no time," Phil answered.
"One final question: When are you coming back to Chicago?" Sylvan asked.
"Soon," Phil said firmly.
"I'd offer to buy your lunch, but you probably would want a safer dining companion," he added.
Phil could hear a page being rolled quickly out of the reporter's typewriter.
"That's it," Sylvan said to someone in the newsroom in Chicago.
"Thanks," Sylvan said, speaking to Phil.
"We're done. And in answer to your invitation, I will be honored to have lunch with you. We'll do it in the most public place in the city, if you want. Your bravery is giving Chicago hope."
"Deal," Phil said.
Patty spoke to Sylvan for a few seconds, assuring him that Phil's injuries were not serious and telling the reporter who had become a friend how glad she was that was the case.
"One thing for the record before I go," she told the reporter.
'When you two sit down for lunch, set an extra place, because I'm coming, too," she said.
Phil reached over and pulled Patty into a two-armed hug, while Sylvan charged off across the newsroom with her quote to be added to the story.
There is no charge for reading this novel. If you like it, please refer your friends. Feel free to highlight, paste and print one copy for your private use. This novel is protected under U.S. Copyright and all rights are reserved. My email address is oakley.phil@gmail.com.
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