Chapter 8 - The Cleansing of Forty-Two
By ten o'clock that night, the forty-second floor of the Gallagher Freight building was surrounded by police cruisers with their emergency lights turned off.
There were no sirens. There were no news vans.
When Chicago police officers arrived at forty-two North Michigan Avenue at night, they came through the basement freight elevators and spoke in low, respectful tones to Frankie Vance.
In the main conference room, Leo Mercer sat in an iron frame chair.
His hands were unmanacled, but two of Frankie’s men stood behind him with their arms crossed. His expensive Italian suit looked limp and crumpled.
Arthur sat at the head of the long table.
He had changed into a dry white shirt and a dark navy suit coat from the small dressing room behind his office. He was drinking cold black tea from a white porcelain cup.
Paige sat at the corner of the table with her laptop open, typing out the formal corporate resignation documents that Leo Mercer was going to sign before eleven o’clock.
"Arthur," Leo said, his voice pleading, thin, and desperate. "Arthur, listen to me. I didn't have a choice. The North Side crew... they had my son’s promissory notes from the casino in Indiana. They were going to break his legs, Arthur."
Arthur took a slow sip of his tea.
He didn't look at Leo. He looked at the window, where the rain had finally stopped, leaving the city lights sharp and brilliant against the black lake.
"You've been with me nine years, Leo," Arthur said softly.
"I know! I know, boss! That’s why you have to understand—"
"Patrick was with me twelve," Arthur interrupted.
The room went dead silent.
Leo’s mouth remained open, but no sound came out. The mention of Patrick Doyle was the final door slamming shut in a long, dark corridor.
"You don't sign the transfer deeds for the South Loop yards," Arthur said, turning his head slowly toward his old friend, "and you don't sign the resignation papers, Leo... and Frankie takes you down to the Hammond marsh to see Callahan."
Leo looked at Frankie Vance. Frankie’s face was as expressionless as a concrete block.
Leo looked at Paige.
Paige didn't look back. Her fingers moved smoothly across the keyboard, printing out the three-page corporate agreement on the heavy bond paper that the company used for official filings.
She walked down the side of the table, set the papers in front of Leo, and placed a gold Montblanc pen beside them.
"Sign at the red flags, Mr. Mercer," she said, her voice entirely professional. "And leave your building access card on the blotter."
Leo looked at the pen. His hand was shaking—not with the adrenaline of a man who had been in a fight, but with the cold, hollow terror of a man who realized his life as he knew it was over.
He picked up the pen. He signed his name three times.
He stood up, dropped his keycard on the table, and looked at Arthur one last time.
"You're going to die alone, Arthur," Leo said, his voice flat with bitter hatred. "You know that, don't you? You don't let anyone near you. You're going to die in this fucking office with nobody to hold your hand."
Arthur didn't answer. He didn't even blink.
Frankie Vance took Leo by the elbow—firmly, but without violence—and led him toward the rear service elevator.
The heavy doors slid shut.
The executive floor was empty now.
Arthur sat at the head of the twenty-million-dollar table. His tea was cold. The white light of the fluorescent ceiling panels reflected off his dark hair, highlighting the grey silver threads at his temples that hadn't been there three years ago.
Paige gathered the signed papers, tapped them against the table to align the edges, and slipped them into a manila folder.
"I’ll file these with the secretary of state’s office at eight tomorrow morning," she said.
"Bennett," Arthur said softly.
"Yes, Mr. Gallagher?"
"Take the rest of the week off."
Paige stopped. "I have ninety-four invoices to process, Mr. Gallagher. And the new underboss for the South Loop yards needs to be briefed on the union health contributions."
"I don't care about the invoices," Arthur said. He stood up, walked to the window, and pressed his forehead against the cold glass. "Go see your mother."
Paige held the manila folder against her chest.
"She won't know who I am today, Mr. Gallagher," she said softly. "The doctor said the rain always makes her worse."
Arthur turned around slowly.
He stepped away from the window. He walked past the high-backed leather chairs, past the long mahogany table, until he was standing five feet from her desk.
Then he took another step.
He crossed the three-foot line.
He stopped two feet away from her—closer than he had ever stood to another human being without a gun in his hand since the night in the kitchen on Pulaski Road.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver key she had returned to him in the car.
He took her right hand—her small, cold hand that had unknotted his tie—and laid the key in her palm.
Then he closed her fingers over it, his broad, scarred hand wrapping completely around hers for three long, terrifying seconds.
His skin was warm. His pulse was steady.
"It's not a severance payment, Paige," he said, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur that vibrated through the quiet room. "It’s a retainer."
Paige looked down at his hand holding hers.
She didn't pull away. She didn't flinch.
May you like
"A retainer for what?" she asked.
"For keeping me alive," Arthur said softly. "Because apparently, you're the only person in Chicago who knows how to do it without holding a knife."
