Chapter 6 - The Voice on Grand Avenue
The public phone booth behind the Shell station on Grand Avenue had three broken glass panels, and the floor was covered in wet sand and frozen oil.
Eliti stood inside the iron frame, her dark hair covered by a black wool cap, her hands encased in cheap cotton gloves she had bought for three dollars at the convenience store.
She held the black notebook open with her thumb, her eyes tracking the precise line Sodor had highlighted in yellow marker: Alderman Joseph Vance. 2018. The development permit for the riverfront parcel. The deposit in the account named 'Blue Water Trust' in the Bahamas.
She dropped three quarters into the slot and dialed the private number listed on the page.
The line rang four times before a man answered. His voice was heavy, slightly slurred, the voice of a man who had been drinking scotch at two o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon.
"Yeah?"
"Alderman Vance," Eliti said. Her voice was calm, steady, devoid of accent—the clean, neutral English of a court stenographer.
"Who's this? This is a secure line."
"Account number seven-four-nine," Eliti read directly from the page. "Blue Water Trust. Nassau. October twelfth, 2018. Two hundred and fifteen thousand dollars transferred from the construction account of the Kresnik Group."
Silence fell over the line—a heavy, absolute silence in which Eliti could hear the alderman’s ragged breathing through the receiver.
"Who... who gave you that number?" Vance whispered. His voice was no longer heavy with alcohol; it was sharp with sudden, sickening terror. "Sodor is dead. Dritton said he died in the hospital three days ago."
"Mr. Kresnik is currently reviewing his archives," Eliti said smoothly. "He noted that your daughter’s admission to the conservatory in Oberlin was finalized on the same day the zoning board approved the height variance for the Lake Shore tower."
"What... what does he want?"
"He wants you to stay in your office on Thursday night," she said. "When Dritton calls you for the emergency vote on the river lease, you will tell him your phone line is down. If you do not... the blue book will be delivered to the State’s Attorney’s office at eight AM on Friday."
She hung up the phone before he could answer.
She didn't pause. She reached into her pocket, pulled out another three quarters, and dialed the second number.
For two hours, she stood in the freezing booth while the wind from the lake whistled through the broken glass.
She called four men:
Alderman Vance.
Commander Thomas Walsh of the Eighteenth Police District.
Frank Rossi, president of the Dockworkers Local 104.
Dr. Calvin Pierce—the same doctor who had signed the temporary power of attorney for Dritton four days ago.
By the time she finished the fourth call, her fingers were so cold she could barely pick up the quarters from the coin return.
She walked back through the dark alley toward the green door on Western Avenue.
When she stepped inside, Sodor was sitting by the stove, cleaning the horn-handled knife with an oiled rag.
"How did they sound?" he asked without looking up.
"Like men who have forgotten how to breathe," she said, pulling off her gloves and holding her purple fingers near the iron stove.
"Good," Sodor said. He set the knife down on the wood table and looked at her. "Now we prepare the table for Taylor Street."
"Dritton will have twenty men in the room," Eliti said, leaning against the warm brick. "Dardan will be standing by the door with a gun under his coat. You have no men, Sodor. You have a maid and an old car."
Sodor stood up. He walked over to the wooden locker in the corner and pulled out a long, narrow leather case that smelled of gun oil and old brass.
"In Albania," he said, unbuckling the brass straps of the case, "when two brothers fight over an inheritance, the neighbors do not bring guns. They bring the Besa—the word of honor that was spoken before the house was built."
He opened the case.
Inside lay two ancient flintlock pistols with silver-embossed stocks and long, narrow barrels made of dark Turkish steel—weapons that had belonged to his great-grandfather in the mountains of Pukë in 1880.
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"These do not fire," Eliti said, looking at the rusted locks.
"They do not need to fire," Sodor said, his eyes reflecting the deep red light of the iron stove. "They only need to be seen by men who remember where their fathers came from."
